tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79858852366184538062024-03-14T03:13:02.021-07:00Maz's PlaceMazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-89935315832356878032020-06-28T04:48:00.000-07:002020-06-29T07:00:16.262-07:00Proud to be an Ally.<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">I’m proud to be an ally.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Maybe you totally get that, or maybe you wonder why it’s something to be particularly proud of. Or maybe you wonder why I don’t just shut up and go away - but that’s why I’ve put this in a blog that you have to click on to read it. I’m assuming a basic level of interest in the general area, or at least a will to read on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It’s the anniversary of Stonewall, today. If you don’t know what Stonewall is, or why it is called ‘Stonewall’, here’s a bit of further reading: <a href="https://thestonewallinnnyc.com/the-stonewall-inn-story/2017/4/4/ntmsg5ni7iixxdjimmg16hz6dvsi4v"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">https://thestonewallinnnyc.com/the-stonewall-inn-story/2017/4/4/ntmsg5ni7iixxdjimmg16hz6dvsi4v</span></a>. There’s an excellent film, currently free to view on Amazon Prime: “Stonewall”. Some of it may shock you. I certainly hope it does, if it wasn’t stuff you already knew.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I was born in 1969. I was four months old when Stonewall happened. <br />
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Up until 2 years earlier, homosexuality was illegal in England and Wales. I grew up in Belgium, though, where homosexuality had been legal (as part of France) since 1795. Nope, not 1975 - not a typo. 1795. All in all, I’ve never lived in a country where it was illegal to be gay, in my lifetime.<br />
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So I didn’t really know homosexuality *could* be illegal, growing up, although I knew it was frowned on. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It has never mattered to me whether someone is gay or not. I say that hand on heart. That isn’t a matter for pride - that’s just a fact. Although I’m quite proud of my parents for not teaching me otherwise. <br />
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With the obvious proviso of consenting adults, how is it possibly any of my business what gender of other human someone chooses to sleep with? It’s an honest question, not a high horse. How could it possibly be my business? How can it possibly hurt anyone? Why it has ever been illegal is genuinely beyond me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I do remember being rocked back on my heels when homosexuality was legalised in Scotland, because it was 1981. 1981! And 1982 in Northern Ireland. Process that. You could be jailed for loving someone the same gender as yourself until the early 80s. I was rocked back on my heels because it was the first time I realised it was actually against the law in some places.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I spent most of my childhood around dancers and thespians, both amateur and professional, so there was a fairly high level of camp in my life - plus the 70s were as camp as tits, anyway, right? We also had no English language television, so I largely grew up on things like Round the Horne, had more than a passing knowledge of Polari, and got told off for writing “there I was, trolling along the waterfront” in a piece of creative writing at school.<br />
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Plus we had this strange advantage - I <i>think</i> it’s an advantage, anyway. Being an immigrant or ex-pat or migrant or Eurobrat or whatever you’d like to call me, we lived in a strange limbo between the cultures of Belgium and England, not having to conform to the societal mores of either country, and with a resultant exultant freedom to choose what we believed to be right.<br />
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Being at a European school, too, where, by the time I left, there were 3,500 different kids all on the same site, in 8 different language sections (now more), we were all very obviously culturally various. <br />
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I think it’s very much endemic to the human condition that people need to identify their tribe. Part of this, sadly, is identifying who is <i>not</i> in their tribe. Who is perceived as a threat, in that shitty little caveman part of the brain that we really have to try so hard to rise above. <br />
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Well, when you are surrounded by so many differences, that’s very easy indeed. You don’t have to look hard for the differences, they’re right there in your face. You don’t have to pick on the kid who is a bit camp, or the one who is a bit more or less feminine than “the norm”, the artistic boy, the athletic girl. <br />
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When you are surrounded by people who are mostly the same as you - the same nationality, sexuality, ethnicity - that shitty little caveman part is hunting for the different ones, trying to find people to cast out of the cave, and very fine distinctions will be magnified. When you are surrounded by people who are very obviously different from you, it’s very easy to, for example, find the people who speak the same language as you. Tribe: done. And there are so many other clear tribes of people defined by speaking <i>their</i> own language that there’s no point in feeling threatened by them. <br />
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As a result we kind of grew up knowing that our tribe was the Brits - I’ve always been a patriotic Brit, contrary to popular perception. But we also knew right from the start that we were essentially all the same in our differences - and we all mixed freely from an early age. So I’ve always been a proud and patriotic European, at the same time. <br />
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Incidentally, this whole tribe thing also meant that we didn’t give a toss about skin colour. There were POC across all the language sections - they were just English or Italian or Danish or French like all the other English or Italian or Danish or French. Anyhow. Back to the point.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">I knew from quite early on that my younger brother was gay, and I knew he got a hard time for it, being called names even before he really knew what it was all about. We went to different schools, so there wasn’t much I could do about it in the school years. Then I left home and moved to England when I was 18, and left him dealing with the worst years by himself. I wish I’d been around more at the time. Maybe that’s why I’m so passionate about it now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Living in London in the late 80s was bliss for me. I’d wanted to live there since I was four years old, so it was the realisation of a long held dream. Heaven (the nightclub, not the sky-paradise thing) was in full sway, new romantics were everywhere, androgyny and fashion experimentation were very much the order of the day. Again, most of my friends were actors and musicians, and nobody gave a flying toss who was gay and who was straight. And who was bi, for that matter. But I did notice that people in the UK used the word “gay” as a derogatory term. “No, I don’t want to go to the Student Union Friday night disco - it’s totally gay”. I had two reactions to this - first: “yay! Better dancing and no risk of getting forcibly felt up!" - and second: “Oh, right. You just mean naff? Why not just say naff?”. It puzzled me, and I didn’t like it, but I just raised an eyebrow and moved along.<br />
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Time moved on. My brother moved to London and lived with me for a few years. My friends continued to be actors and musicians with no hang ups about anyone’s sexuality. I guess I grew up in a lovely bubble.<br />
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I met Simon, we got married and had kids (just about in that order) and moved to the countryside. I wasn’t happy to leave London and when I arrived here my initial reaction was “where are the gays? Where are the foreigners? Where are the black people?” Because there are so few, it felt very oppressive to me. I didn’t understand it. But, you know, I don’t like someone MORE because they’re black or gay or foreign, and I don’t like them LESS because they’re white or straight or British. If they’re nice, I like them. If they’re an arsehole, I don’t. So I learned to love living here, very quickly, because pretty much every single person I’ve actually met down here has been really nice. I learned to relax, adapt and not have preconceived ideas, either way.<br />
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The kids have grown up down here, but have had a lot of time in London and Brussels. The first wedding they went to was my brother’s wedding, to Bruce. Their second was Jane & Wendy’s wedding. Their third was a straight wedding. Their fourth was their godfather, Stefan’s wedding to the lovely Marc. So of four weddings, three had been same-sex and they didn’t think anything of this. They didn’t really think anything of sexuality at all. People fall in love, they get married if they want to. Whether they’re marrying the same gender or not - so what? <br />
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It never occurred to me that this complete lack of discrimination on their part could be dangerous until one of my girls was asked, aged 12 or so, whether she was a lesbian. This was because she had put a little message on insta to her best friend, saying “love you!”. There followed a storm of “two brides” emojis and laughing faces. But when she was asked, to her face, “oi, are you a lesbian?”, her totally innocent response was “I’m not sure, I might be”. She wasn’t interested in boys or girls, that way, and she really didn’t think the answer was a big deal.<br />
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The resulting bullying broke up her friendship with a really lovely friend, because my amazing daughter didn’t want to open her shy friend up to the same bullying she was facing. She withdrew into herself and felt a lot of self-hatred for a long time. To my shame, I didn’t notice what was happening. I remembered banging a lot of doors as a teenager and wanting my own space, so the amount of time she was spending alone in her room didn’t ring the alarm bells that it should have done. Once I was shaken awake to what was going on it was hard to push away the guilt of a) not noticing and b) bringing her up to be so open minded that this apparently innocent question seemed, to her, to deserve an honest answer. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over the guilt for the first but the second, I’ve learned to celebrate, once again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Because now my daughters are the strongest allies I know. They are a safe haven for a bewildering variety of friends from all backgrounds, genders and persuasions. They are fearless in their defence of their friends, and staunch in their defence of strangers who are “strange”. I thought I was open minded and tolerant, but I continue to learn from them every day, as does Simon.</span></div>
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My brother and his friends, over the last decades, have travelled to as many Pride marches in as many cities all over the world as they can afford the time and money to get to. Pride may look like a big old party (and boy! Is it a great party!). But don’t be fooled. It is a serious issue. They are all there for more than the party.<br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">We all watched Stonewall again, last night. It is shocking and harrowing and joyful and strong in equal measure. As always, the stark reminder at the end of the film that being gay was still, at the time of the making of the film, illegal in 77 countries, pushed me over the brink and into tears. Angry tears, sad tears, tears of incomprehension. <br />
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I’ve just checked, and four years later it’s still illegal to be gay in 70 countries or more. And it carries the death penalty in 12 countries. **** that ****. <br />
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Keep forcing the change. Don’t accept the bungeeing of human rights. Call out inequality where you see it. Be a safe space. And teach your kids, if you wanted kids and were lucky enough to have them, to be kind.</span></div>
Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-59820595986145375112017-12-15T07:52:00.002-08:002017-12-15T07:57:46.935-08:00My Dad's Obituary. Which he wrote. Himself.I can't write, still, about what my Dad meant to me. I couldn't possibly find the words, yet. My brother, Jon, and I were faced with this very difficult problem when it came to his funeral. What the fuck could we say about the man who loved us with all his being, and never let us doubt it for a moment? The man we were so proud to call our father?<br />
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In this, as in so many other things, Dad solved the problem for us.</div>
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It transpires that several years earlier, as a writing exercise, he wrote his own obituary. He had previously, on the request of his friend Mike Graham that he send their old school friend Wogger Brian something to cheer him up in hospital following WB having had a stroke, sent this to Mike. Mike was good enough to contact me after Dad's death and ask me if I'd seen it. I hadn't. He sent it to me. I laughed harder than I had for a long time. I sent it to Jon. He laughed his socks off. Did we dare to read it at his funeral?</div>
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You bet your arse we did.</div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Michael Bott</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">b. 1942 – d. 2042</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Or in other words:<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He came – and he went – and in between … nothing</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Mick Bott was born in a mining village in East Kent in 1942.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>By all accounts, while still in his pram he was shot at by a German fighter pilot.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The pilot missed – to the subsequent regret of many.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He attended the village school where he learned reading, writing, fist-fighting and some arithmetic.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He was regularly beaten, usually for laughing at inappropriate moments (an unfortunate habit that was to resurface regularly in later life – particularly at funerals).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He went on to Grammar school, where he continued to suffer regular beatings (only with bigger sticks), continued fist-fighting (only with bigger boys), and narrowly escaped expulsion.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He learned very little, but took perverse pride in his towering success as a truant.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Here, he was aided by an innate ability to create plausible stories at the drop of a hat, and a God-given talent for bare-faced lying (skills which were to serve him well in later life, when working for the European Commission). <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The brief periods he spent within the school buildings were devoted largely to improving his skill at cards, thus enabling him to fund a youthful penchant for Fremlins Double Elephant brown ale and Capstan full-strength cigarettes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nevertheless, by dint of several hours of study at the Valsania café (a local bordello) he was able to leave school with some sort of qualifications, to start work in the local library on the day before his eighteenth birthday.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Here, despite a tendency to return drunk in the afternoons and swear at the borrowers, he passed a happy six months and became engaged to be married (an error he put down to a youthful inability to distinguish between true love and unbridled lust).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>At the age of twenty-five, however, he met and married Beverly, who confounded the predictions of friends and family alike by remaining at his side for four decades, and providing him with two splendid children.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“She stayed with me,” he would boast, “for nigh on forty years – I couldn’t live with me for a fortnight.”</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">By this time, attracted by visions of untold wealth, he had joined Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise service, where he spent thirteen years in what he claimed was “the best kid’s job in the world” on account of the wide range of businesses -<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>from oil and cigarette companies to diamond dealers and furriers – that he was employed to rob.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nevertheless, he spent most of this time – not entirely coincidentally – gauging casks of imported wines and spirits and working in breweries, distilleries and the evocatively named “wet” warehouses.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">In the end they made him settle down to control the Kent coast between Dover and Ramsgate, (where he failed utterly to prevent the arrival of some 3,000 illegal immigrants per year), the Hoverport at Dover (which subsequently went bust), the UK’s regional seat of Government under Dover Castle (which they closed down) and a small oils warehouse (which was later uprooted by the Dover Harbour Board).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>In any event, by the time the UK joined the common market he owed its government almost exactly one million pounds (long story) and was nevertheless bored; so he got a job in Brussels at the Commission, took up the law, and spent the next thirteen years taking Member States to court for telling lies.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>This task he compared to shooting very large fish in very small barrels – with a very big gun.<br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">There was, however, a limit to the fun to be had from it, and – in the mistaken belief that it would prove more exciting – he turned to writing EU law and negotiating its enactment.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Finding himself in this capacity unable either to thump opponents or run away from them (the only two weapons in his armoury), he compromised by suffering two heart attacks – and surviving them unharmed (again, to the regret of many).</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">Another thirteen years having passed, he moved to Canada for two years, ostensibly to advise the federal government (which confounded its many critics by consistently ignoring his advice).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Returning to Brussels, he found what he was pleased to call his life’s work in tatters, took a view, and retired.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It was at this juncture that his wife walked out – cause or coincidence, who can tell?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">Only now did he discover his true métier.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>By dint of shamelessly stealing the work of fellow members of his local writing club and selling it to unsuspecting publishers, he was able to accumulate a considerable fortune which he devoted to an old age of unmitigated debauchery.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“It was”, he said, “either that or golf.”</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He was to die on his hundredth birthday, drunk, penniless and smiling, in a Shanghai brothel.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It’s the way he would have wanted to go.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Cheers, Dad. If you're raising a glass this weekend, raise an extra one to my dear dad.</span></span></div>
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Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-52003978598029216522017-11-04T07:01:00.001-07:002017-11-04T07:01:54.880-07:00Jack of all trades, Master of some.<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I’m a polyglot, a polyvore and a polymath.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I used to be an omnivore (apart from
sprouts), but as I can’t eat wheat any more, I don’t think I can really call
myself an omnivore any more.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Although,
ironically, I do now eat sprouts.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I and my other polymaths have, somewhat disparagingly
throughout history, been referred to as “Jacks of all trade, masters of
none”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prefer to think of myself as a Jack of all trades, master
of some.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are some things that I am
really very good at.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Part of me wishes there was just one thing that I was really excellent at –
really extraordinarily good at – so that I could just concentrate on that and
bloody well do that better than enough other people to make an extraordinarily
good living at it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think it’s easier to be that way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To just have one thing to concentrate on and
hone – one thing that you love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s certainly more popular to be good at one thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, Paul is an excellent violinist – a prodigy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Elena is an amazing tennis player – plays for
county.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But what about Jeremy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He is a sensational violinist, county level tennis player, has a pretty
fine singing voice, is a great artist, good at maths and gets “A”s in all his
creative writing at school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somehow,
nobody really knows what to do with that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Somehow, Paul is amazing, Elena is phenomenal and Jeremy – he’s just a
bit of a smart-arse, and a bit annoying, really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He might be as good as the others at the
violin and tennis, but he will be damned as a Jack of all trades.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First time I heard that, I thought “Yeah, Jack of all
trades, that’s me!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turn my hand to
anything!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Useful Engine!”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was some time later that someone sneakily
whispered “master of none” into my ten year old ear, and a small part of me –
well, it didn’t die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Worse things have
happened to me than that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it curled
up in a corner for a long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Decades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tried to choose between a legal career and a career in
dance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back then, it wasn’t terribly
serious to even consider being a dancer, but I really wanted to, and I was
good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there was always the “what if
you’re not good enough” question, hovering on peoples’ lips and just behind
their eyebrows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think they felt it was
irresponsible to encourage someone to go into such a precarious career –
particularly someone who after all COULD do something else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As it turns out, the decision was taken out
of my hands when at 16 I was run over, and had to have electric shock therapy
to be able to walk again without a limp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I tried to return to ballet, but within five or ten minutes, my foot
would cramp up and the mangled ligaments in my arch would cramp, making my foot
curl into a claw, and I would limp to the sink where I would run warm water
over it and try not to cry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tell myself that this was lucky – I never had to find out
whether I was good enough, so I can always tell myself that maybe I was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it wasn’t really good, was it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So to the law with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Get thee to the Inns of Court!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I managed somehow, despite the attempted sabotage of a teacher
who developed an inexplicable (in my opinion!) dislike to me, to earn a place
at King’s College, London, to study law.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I graduated a year early from school, and being just 17 years and four
months old, I decided to take a year out before going to college.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During this year, I worked, as my parents
were averse to the idea of paying for me to spend a year finding myself in
Phuket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no idea why – frightfully
unreasonable, don’tcherknow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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During the year out, I was offered an interview for a place
at Cambridge, but they wanted me to give up my firm offer from King’s before
they’d interview me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rang them to
discuss this, and said I felt it was unreasonable to be expected to give up a
firm place on the basis of a possibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was told that I actually had a place, but they wouldn’t give it to me
unless I came for interview and I couldn’t do that unless I turned down my firm
place at King’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told them to shove
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-35087074667350985872017-10-31T06:29:00.002-07:002017-10-31T06:54:06.024-07:00The Eyes Have It.I've gone in to detail on what has happened to my eyes in the past, so here's a nutshell. Or as much of a nutshell as I've ever been able to produce.<br />
<br />
October 2015 - spotted a weird distortion right in the centre of my vision in my right eye, so a straight line looks like it has a little perfectly circular blob half way along. Diagnosed as vitreo-macular traction - should sort itself out. This was 29th October 2015 - two years and two days ago.<br />
<br />
January 2016 - while teaching Zumba, saw my retina tear and a flourish of black pigment appear in front of my vision in my right eye - probably associated with vitreo-macular traction, but a very rare side-effect. Leaped straight on train to Moorfields, still in sweaty Zumba gear, was seen at midnight and retinal tear repaired at 9am the very next morning.<br />
<br />
31st March 2016 - vision looked odd. Kept thinking there was someone creeping up behind me. Shadows everywhere and blue flashes. Went to bed at midnight, turned off light, turned on back-lit Kindle and realised that the bottom 5% of my vision was not there.<br />
<br />
1st April 2016, being luckily enough in London from the night before, got to Moorfields at 7am, all the while watching the obscured portion at the bottom of my vision rising. Like standing in a sinking ship and seeing the water rise. Saw a consultant at around 9am (having been triaged and seen a series of nurses to do various checks, dilate eyes etc - really can't be done much quicker than that). Consultant confirmed that my retina had begun to detach and was detaching quite fast. He walked me upstairs to the appropriate waiting room, where I was put on the list for immediate operation.<br />
<br />
4pm that same day, shortly after the fire alarm went off with hilarious consequences of a hospital full of partially sighted people milling around with arms outstretched, arses hanging out of the back of hospital gowns, looking for fire exits and generally panicking mildly (although more about missing our operations than burning to death), I was operated upon.<br />
<br />
I had asked the surgeon for some funky pre-meds and had all sorts of cocaines and diazepams and lord knows what-all else besides, pumped into my veins and eyes, with the result that I was highly relaxed when the 12 year old surgeon clamped my eye open, remarking that I had very long eyelashes. So relaxed, indeed, was I, that I drawled "why young man - are you flirting with me?" causing the senior surgeon and all the theatre nurses to get an attack of the giggles.<br />
<br />
Anyway. That all went as well as can be expected but I was told that due to the fact that my retina had fully detached by the time they operated (which was far faster than they would have expected it to do so), there was a strong chance that I wouldn't regain my vision in my right eye, and that if I did, it would be at best partial.<br />
<br />
Was instructed to sit still and stare at a wall for seven days and seven nights (yes, sleeping upright), and thank god for Terry Pratchett audio books because sitting and sleeping upright, for the woman with the double scoliosis, corkscrew spine with Scheuermann's-afflicted vertebrae is - well, let's just say that was seven very long days and seven very long nights. But on day 8, I saw some light - some movement of colour - and slowly, slowly, over the next ten days or so, my vision came back. It was twisted and distorted, and looking at my children with my right eye scared the shit out of me because they didn't look like them and I was terrified that something would happen to my left eye and I would forget what they looked like.<br />
<br />
Three months of minimal exercise followed. Long, slow walks, with a nice long neck like a giraffe lady and a still head. No gardening, even, because the head movement was deemed dangerous. No Zumba - sob sob.<br />
<br />
But it passed - of course it did. These things do. And all had gone a million times better than expected.<br />
<br />
July 2016 I was told that the retinal reattachment, where they blast a laser through your lens (I absolutely won't tell you what else they did - you genuinely don't want to know), had caused damage to the lens, leading to a cataract. Oh so sexy! Cataracts, in a 48 year old. But it was to be expected - it's a common side-effect. I had to wait until it got bad enough to be operated on by the NHS, which is fair enough. There are plenty of people who needed it more than I did at the time. It was hard to watch the vision deteriorate again, and in a different way, but I knew what was happening, so it was okay.<br />
<br />
This wait took about a year, during which things were fairly uneventful, except for the slow deterioration of the cataract. Colours faded, detail and texture disappeared, and sunshine or electric light hitting the lens blasted bright dispersed light all around the eye, blinding me temporarily.<br />
<br />
Eventually, the cataract was bad enough to operate on! Hurrah! I was offered the choice of having the op at Moorfields or Basingstoke. Opted for Basingstoke, in order to leave Moorfields operating theatre clear for people with detached retinas etc. I think I have mentioned this elsewhere so forgive me if you've heard it before. I'm never sure if I've written for myself, sent someone an email or published a blog.<br />
<br />
After a couple of administrative hiccups (like getting me in for my pre-op five days before the operation, and telling me at that point that I had to not wear my contact lenses for 14 days before the op... erm, oh-kayyyy ... so having to have the operation rescheduled blah blah), the lens replacement was done - July 2017.<br />
<br />
I was told that as my eyesight is so bad, once they had dealt with the right eye, I could come back and have the left one done, on the NHS, as there would be a massive discrepancy. The right one (the "bad" one) was on a dioptre of -13 plus 1.5 astigmatism by the time they operated, and dropping almost a full dioptre per fortnight by that time, and the left one (the "good" one) is now -7, which basically means I am blind as a bat without either lenses or glasses. The lens replacement in the right eye would sort out the short-sightedness (all being well) and so I'd have one eye that wasn't short-sighted at all and one (the good one - hah!) that, without correction, is pretty bloody useless beyond a 5cm distance.<br />
<br />
I know a few people who have had lens replacements and swear by them, so if you're thinking of it to improve your eyesight, bully for you and go for it. I will not be having the other eye done. I'll leave it at that.<br />
<br />
Don't let me put you off. Mine was bloody tricky, as during the retinal reattachment, they had to remove the vitreous jelly (I know, I said I wouldn't tell you, but it's relevant!) from inside my eye, and the body naturally replaces this jelly with fluid - I don't know what fluid. Saline or something - just fluid. When they do the lens replacement, they cut a small incision in the sac housing your natural lens, mince the lens in situ, and suck it out, leaving the sac temporarily empty, ready for filling with a nice new plastic perfect lens. The sac itself is a millifraction of a hair's breadth thin. In a normal eye, this gossamer-thin sac is resting on a nice bouncy but stable cushion of vitreous jelly. In someone who's had a vitrectomy, this delicate sac is floating on water and moving about all over the place, making it extremely tricky. As the surgeon explained to her junior, WHILE she was actually performing the procedure. Cheers, bird.<br />
<br />
Anyway. That all seemed to go fine. Happened on a Friday. I started to be able to see (peering illegally out from under my clear plastic eye cup which was sexily taped to my face with masking tape, with a big purple arrow drawn on my forehead pointing to the eye that had been operated on) in the waiting room afterwards, having my cup of tea and waiting for Simon to come and take me home, and when I woke up on Saturday morning, my vision was pretty good. On Sunday and Monday it was perfect.<br />
<br />
On Monday night, it went "poufffff" as if someone had dropped a drip of oil onto the surface of my vision, and once more I couldn't see. The next morning it was the same, so I rang the hospital. They said not to worry it was early days. I rang again the next morning, and this time remembered to explain my history (you always assume people know, don't you?) and they went "christ, fuck, shit, fuck, bollocks, bugger, how quick can you get here?" or words to that effect. By this time my vision had become very granular - like a really cool film noir, but in colour, and actually not that cool when it's your actual vision.<br /><br />** EDIT ** I forgot to add that at this point my vision was also completely whiting out any time I stood up or moved quickly. The likely diagnosis given for this was transient ischaemic attacks - as a precursor to having a massive stroke. **<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
In I went and HURRAH! Yet another new and interesting way to go blind - this one, a very, very rare side-effect of lens replacement after retinal detachment. I had developed the macular oedema which I'm sure I've described elsewhere so I won't bore you again. First call treatment for this is eye drops. Easy, right? Wrong. Three different types of drops, one twice a day, one three times a day and one four times a day. Leave a minimum of 15-30 minutes between each type. Alarms going off on my phone nine times a day, or there's no way I'd have remembered, big chart to tick off once I'd actually done them (rather than just been reminded by the phone to do so) and carrying my beautiful little eyelash pouch with me everywhere - bed, bath, kitchen, dog walks, Zumba, 'planes, trains and automobiles for ten weeks. Some of the little fuckers stung like a bastard, too. However, the second resort, if the drops don't work, is injections into the back of the eye, so you can imagine that I was not complaining about the drops, and was making bloody sure I did them as and when necessary, absolutely without fail.<br />
<br />
Surgeon wanted to see me 6-8 weeks after the diagnosis of the oedema, to see whether the drops were working or the oedema was growing, which would, quite quickly, blind me. Appointment was set, via letter, for 10 weeks post-diagnosis, by the admin department. I didn't question this (because you always assume people know, don't you? ... again. Learn that lesson, Pennington, for fuck's sake!).<br />
<br />
I'd been given enough drops for two months, but I figured I could use each set for five weeks probably without too much danger of them going off and disintegrating my eyeballs etc etc (Drama Queen, moi?!). The drops, by the way, were steroids to kill the oedema, NSAIDs to take down the inflammation and pressure drops to stop the steroids from inflating my eyeball until it exploded - no, not really - but it causes glaucoma which I really don't need, thank you very much. I have had pressure issues at every step of this process, so this was particularly important.<br />
<br />
At this stage my vision had changed again. It wasn't so granular, but it was very cloudy and I was extremely concerned, but knowing that I had an appointment coming up, I figured it could wait a few more days.<br />
<br />
Five days before the appointment, which was set for 19th September, I received a letter pushing the appointment back to 31st October - i.e. a full 16 weeks after the diagnosis, and ten weeks after the surgeon had wanted to see me. There is a blog somewhere, or a Facebook post about how I eventually sorted this out (it did involve me having to cry down the phone, eventually), and how I managed to get my GP to prescribe me some nice fresh drops that were not contaminated from being open for too long (that definitely involved a lot of crying down the phone, for fuck's sake), and they managed to see me just a day later than my original appointment, on 20th September - although not with my own surgeon, but a jolly nice different chap.<br />
<br />
That appointment was amazing. The macular oedema was all but resolved by the drops. No injections into the back of the eye. I was bowled over. I was amazed. I was delighted. For the first time since this began, I had an appointment where there wasn't some kind of horrible new shitty way of going blind. Oh yeah, I had a posterior capsule occlusion (PCO) - the back of the lens sac had gone thick and cloudy, which meant that I couldn't see so well, but nothing dangerous, and something that is easily operated on, so hurrah! Reduce the drops, Mrs Pennington, and we'll see you in a few weeks to see if it's completely gone and make an appointment for the PCO operation. Ooh, when can we do that. Tell you what, let's see if they've already filled your appointment that was booked for the 31st October. They haven't! Book yourself in. So I did.<br />
<br />
In I went today. I was a little frightened, maybe, deep down, but I've got in the habit of assuming against all the evidence to the absolute contrary that everything will be okay, and fronting it all out accordingly. If it's not (when it's not), that's when I deal with it. I can't be doing with what ifs. There are too many actual issues to be dealt with Right Now to be fearing possible consequences which may never happen. I mean, while all of this has been going on, my Dad got ill, and iller, and better, and ill again, and iller, and better, and very ill, and died. So. You know.<br />
<br />
In I went. I booked in at reception and the Green Waiting Area, where I waited. I had an eye test for my right eye where I could read everything down to the bottom row (GET FUCKING INNNNN!) and for my left eye where I couldn't even see the board, because I hadn't put my contact lens in that eye this morning, as when I took it out last night it felt like I'd taken off half the surface of my cornea. I know. Don't. It's fine, honestly.<br />
<br />
In went the dilating drops - both eyes, this time, so at least I currently match, even if I do look like a superannuated Beanie Baby - and off to the Green Waiting Area for The Waiting. Ooh, here we go - hi def scan of the retinas, watch the birdie - no, the blue dot and try not to follow the red line down the way, keep still, don't blink, and off you go back the the Green Waiting Area for more of The Waiting.<br />
<br />
When my name was called it was my surgeon who was seeing me, which was nice, as I didn't need to explain everything (just what had happened at the last appointment as neither of us could read the nice man's loopy writing). She had a look. She hummed. She put the yellow numbing drops in and took the pressure of both my eyes - normal. First time the pressure's been normal, unmedicated, in nearly two years. She checked the surface of the left eye for corneal damage - none. She brought my scans up on the screen, and we both had a good look at the one from July (oedema), the one from September (virtually resolved oedema) and today's.<br />
<br />
"Mrs Pennington, that scan is pristine. Your vision in your right eye is showing as 20/20. Everything looks wonderful and if it's okay with you, I am happy to discharge you from our care today."<br />
<br />
Guess who cried? Me? You're right. Her? You're right, too. <br />
<br />
Me: "Gosh, I'm sorry - what a prat! Please ignore me!"<br />
<br />
Her: (teary eyed and wobbly of chin) "You've had a bit of a journey, Mrs Pennington, and I'm not surprised it's all quite emotional. I'm delighted for you."<br />
<br />
I don't think I realised until that moment how much this has weighed down on me these last two years. It's all very well not acknowledging or worrying about potential consequences, but they do catch up. Maybe it helped that there have been so many other things to worry about. There has been no time to dwell.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I pulled myself together sufficiently to walk out of the consulting room without freaking out the other Waiters in the Green Waiting Area - because I looked like I'd had really bad news - and made it to the loos, where I locked myself in and cried some more. Then I pulled myself together again and almost made it to my car before I collapsed in tears again. Christ on a bike - where are all these tears coming from - it's happening again as I type this.<br />
<br />
I'm so happy it's over - at least for now. My right eye vision IS 20/20, but that doesn't mean it's perfect, oddly. It's still distorted, straight lines are not straight and never will be again, but so fucking what? I thought I was going blind, and the bloody fabulous NHS has saved my sight. I can SEEEEE!<br />
<br />
I don't regret any of this happening, and I don't wish it hadn't. It has been fucking horrible, but it has taught me a lot. It has taught me not to take my sight for granted for so much as a second. You'd think that a dancer, a reader, an artist, a cook, a photographer, a crafter, a gardener, a person, in short, who utterly delights in her vision would have realised this sooner, wouldn't you? It's taught me a lot more, actually. I'm still learning.<br />
<br />
The one thing I wish about all of this, with all of my heart, is that my Dad was here so I could ring him up and tell him: "I'm alright, Dad", and hear him reply, "Who loves ya, baby?".<br />
<br />
Pip pip.Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-31842345035699350222017-07-12T07:19:00.001-07:002017-07-12T07:19:58.134-07:00ResolutionThe astute reader among you will have noticed that this blog at best hiccups and at worst does nothing, and that every time there's a new post after a long pause, it promises (see how she divorces herself from responsibility by referring to the blog as "it" rather than "I") to be more regular.<br />
<br />
So we'll take that as read!<br />
<br />
However - I have had an epiphany this time, I really, really have. Here it is.<br />
<br />
It's a life-changing idea. One of the things I really enjoy in my day, as you may have noticed, is taking Sev for a walk. It takes a chunk out of the day, as we generally meander for about an hour and a half, but I don't want to cut his walks down because a) he enjoys it and b) I get a lot of thinking done - I also get a lot of choreography done - but a lot of thinking. One of the things I'm missing at the moment, and actually for years, now, is writing. I never get the time to write.<br />
<br />
So I have all these - I was about to say "amazing ideas". Let's maybe make that just "ideas" and we'll see! I have all these ideas that flit into my head when I'm walking. Things to write about, to share, to discuss. And I get home, and The Admin crashes in. The house demands tidying, school uniforms and Zumba kit demand to be washed and (hahahaha I was going to say ironed, but that's a blatant lie - I don't do that) put away (seldom does that happen either, while we're being honest about what a fucking slattern we are), Facebook is shouting "read me", and while that MAY on occasion be a bloody good way of wasting time, it's also a bloody good way of communicating with my friends and family, who are largely flung far and wide. So bog off! (defensive, much?!) Customers need contacting to check that they're delighted with their jewels (which they almost invariably are, but on the rare occasion they're not, they're delighted by how easy it is to sort it out - commercial over).<br />
<br />
The point is, by the time I finally sit down, if that ever happens, the (amazing haha) ideas are forgotten and the inspiration has gone. So I've decided that I'm going to record myself rambling while I ramble, on my little voice memo application on the jolly old iPhone. This gets no use whatsoever except for learning lines, and it's about time it earned its place on my phone, frankly. Then I'm going to flipping well come straight home and type it all up. Dazzlingly simple. We'll see.<br />
<br />
The main reason for this sudden determination to start writing again, in amongst all the other busy things happening, is that last week, while beginning to pack up my darling dad's house, I found a few files of his writings. I'm hoping there's going to be a lot more on his computer, which is currently kaput and requiring TLC of the IT variety (yes, I have TIOATIOA). Meanwhile, the sheer joy provided by being able to read his words and hear his voice in my head as I read - to have his words forever - is just the most precious thing that he could have left to my brother and I. <br />
<br />
You know what? If I'm THIS delighted by that gift, would I not think of doing the same for my children? Maybe they won't want to read this stuff when I'm gone, but maybe they will. Maybe when they're grown up and they have kids of their own, they'll want to be able to say "Read this - this was your grandmother." (Note to self, swear less.) (Second not to self, fuck it, - future grandchildren, this was your grandmother, warts and all). But in any case, having received that amazing gift from my dad, I'm figuring I ought to at least attempt such a gift for my children, although I'm sure not with his level of skill. But I's'll do me best.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, before he went in to hospital two years ago, Dad started a blog! I'm attaching a link. You may go and have a read if the mood takes you. It's my gift to you. I wish he had kept it for longer, but I'm glad it's there. It's not a patch on his stories, mind, but nevertheless, his voice and attitude and general Mick-ness is in it. Ladies and Gents, my Dad: <a href="http://diabeticmick.weebly.com/">Dad's Blog</a><br /><br />See, now I want to go back and tidy up the grammar, because this is a direct transcript of me talking to myself, but the kids just got home for school and I have promised myself I'll be a bit more present. <br />To quote my Dad - Pip pip!Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-63185456263107922412016-07-04T23:35:00.000-07:002016-07-04T23:35:49.865-07:00Boat Trip - another bloody analogy.Imagine this.<br />
<br />
There are 65 of us, going on a boat trip in choppy waters. The waters are choppy, no matter what happens, or which boat we choose, because that's how the sea is, these days.<br />
<br />
We are stood on the beach, and we have the choice of two boats.<br />
<br />
One of them is a boat which we've been sailing about in for forty years. We have to pay for tickets, though, and some of us don't like that. Some of us are not keen on the places it stops or the canteen on board, or the fact that we can't get a job behind the bar because one of those jobs is being done by a Polish person, and that's obviously the particular job we want. The Polish person needs somewhere to sleep and our Mandy's renting a cabin out to them which is paying her Todd's school fees but if we were doing their job as well it would be better. It's also a big boat and it's got loads of other people on it - we don't all know each other, but there are different languages and cultures, and we can all share stuff.<br />
<br />
On the whole, although there are things we don't like about the boat, we're pretty sure it's sea-worthy. It's been looked over by the coastguard and some shipbuilders, and various other experts, and they say it's the sounder of the two available boats.<br />
<br />
There is a second boat. Nobody's put it to sea for forty years, but that could make it quite exciting - we are all agreed on that. There are a few considerations, though. <br />
<br />
The coastguard, some shipbuilders and various other experts have looked it over and warn that they're pretty sure it's really not safe, although if we all bail out furiously for the first ten years or so, it may well improve. There are no guarantees about this, but we're all pretty strong, probably, maybe, and financially robust enough across the board, obviously, to be able to afford the ten years worth of buckets we're going to need to bail with. Actually, I bet someone would just give us some buckets. We've been given buckets before on the old boat, after all. Anyway! There are some pretty exciting things about the new boat.<br />
<br />
What are they, we cry?! The company who own the new boat tell us some stuff.<br />
<br />
One is that we are going to spend all the money we save on tickets for the old boat doing up the new boat - hurrah! That sounds great! Although, actually, we're not sure that we are paying as much for the old boat as we are being told we are. But they wouldn't lie about that, surely?!<br /><br />Another is that the old boat was run by a faceless and unelected crew, and we weren't able to have anything to do with where it went, whereas the new boat will be steered and owned by us, so we will have more control over the new boat - hurrah!<br /><br />Hey, we forgot to tell you - this boat is going to be all for us! Don't worry! We'll still be able to buy stuff in the on board tax free shops, and everything! Everyone wants to sell us stuff because we're really important and we buy loads of stuff.<br />
<br />
Oh, and we really love this one - it's going to have a big shiny Union Jack painted on the side, and we won't let other people on because even one or two might sink the ship - so no Poles working in the bar!<br />
<br />
Of the 65 of us, only 44 have a vote, because the rest are kids.<br />
<br />
For one reason or another, only 33 of us 44 actually vote. Some of the others were away unexpectedly, some were away but didn't get to vote for technical reasons - like their bit of paper which they asked for didn't arrive, some were away but had been told we would be staying on the old boat anyway so didn't get 'round to arranging for the crew to send them a bit of paper to vote on, some didn't realise we were really being asked if we wanted to leave the ship and that we were going to do so and some genuinely didn't know which ship was better, but trusted other people to make the right decision. Anyway - who cares why? They didn't vote, so they don't count.<br />
<br />
Whatever happens, the 21 children have to go on the ship we vote for, and so do the other 11 who didn't vote. No, we can't go on the boat we vote for, we've all got to go on the same boat. No, if we don't vote, we can't just stay on the boat we were already on - we have to vote to stay on it. Were you not listening? I know we didn't say it very loud, and it wasn't printed on anything or, well, talked about at all, really. Anyway! Never mind! It's happened, now! Let's count the votes.<br />
<br />
Of the 33 people who vote, 17 vote for the new ship and 16 vote for the old ship.<br /><br />At this point - seconds after the votes are counted - one of the guys who told us about the new ship admits that we're not going to spend any money doing it up, because there wasn't really any to spend, let alone the large figure he told us about. Oh dear! There are some rumblings from the shore.<br />
<br />
What's this? It's emerging that we had plenty of say in where the old boat went after all. Oh dear. Apparently, it was our crew sailing it all along! But what about the faceless guys? Well, yes, they're there - that's who we've been buying our tickets off, after all! But all along, any one of us had the right to tell the faceless crew where we wanted to go. <br /><br />Okay, so because there were a lot more people on the boat, a lot more people would have had to have agreed to have gone there, but if everyone wanted to, we could have. Now only a handful of people have the right to tell the crew where to go and remember! It's the SAME crew! They were always in charge! <br /><br />But these faceless guys - they ARE faceless, right? Nope! They're printed up in the ship's log book, which you had access to all along, and guess what! You could have voted for them all along, too! Maybe you did? Some people did, but a lot of those sadly thought it was funny to vote the guys who were planning to jump ship in to help crew the old ship. There's a pretty good chance that in the last 17 years, he might have been doing his best to undermine the old boat, but not to worry!<br /><br />The people who own the new boat (including that guy ^) just told us that the crew had no control over the big boat, for a bit of a laugh. They actually did, and it turns out we had our own speedboat on the time for daytrips and things we wanted to do which the other people didn't want to do - we had that all the time! And our own money to spend, too.<br />
<br />
Oh yes, the shops. Well, we can still buy stuff in them - yay! Lots of the stuff might have to be made on board for a bit, or bought in from the big ship and other ships at a bit of a higher cost, because we haven't got contracts with any of the people who sell the stuff, at the moment. I'm sure the people who do will really want to sell to our little boat, though, so they'll get around to working out the highest price they can get away with charging us that we are prepared to pay as quickly as they can. And they are really going to want to buy our stuff, too - after all, it's handmade by local craftsmen. It's not cheap, but we think it's totally worth it!<br />
<br />
Actually, we're not sure if we can stop people getting on, after all. The owners didn't really think we could, and they didn't really mean it when they said it. Oopsie. Sorry!<br />
<br />
BUT! You'll like this! It's STILL GOT A UNION JACK ON THE SIDE! YAY!<br />
<br />
The guys who own the new ship suddenly start resigning from the board, but it's okay, because they've got lifeboats, life rafts and private islands, so don't worry about them! They will be just fine.<br /><br />The 16 people who didn't want to go on the new ship in the first place are royally fucked off. Hang on, they say. We never believed the new ship was going to have any money spent on it and we didn't want other people kept off it, anyway. We like being able to buy good wine cheap in the tax free shop and we think the ticket price is fair. We wanted our kids to be able to grow up with all the other people on the big boat, learn languages and feel they were part of the big boat. We're really committed to this and we're pissed off our passports aren't going to let us or our kids stay on shore where the boat docks. Now they're just going to be able to pop in for a quick run home then back on the new boat, without really getting a proper taste of the places. <br />
<br />
We're REALLY pissed off about this. We REALLY want to stay on the old boat. We REALLY want to check whether you guys are still sure about the new boat - can we just check? Just see?<br />
<br />
The 17 people - well, they're not all quiiiiite as sure as they were, what with the lying about the seaworthiness of the new boat and the resigning of everyone who has anything to do with it, but quite a few of them keep shouting at the other 16 that they need to get over it now - we had a vote, people! That's what the captain told us we should do and now we need to stand by it, no matter what! That's how our system works!<br />
<br />
A couple of the 17 mutter, erm, but, we're not sure.<br />
<br />
The 16 people are still ROYALLY FUCKED OFF. <br />
<br />
"No", they plead. "We have never had a vote like this before - it is actually not how our system works! Our system works in such a way that we pick the crew and the crew pick a captain, and we trust them to sail our ship. As it happens, we also picked a bigger crew who make sure our crew don't all empty the bilges into the sea and do let the scullery maids have half an hour off to visit their mums once in a while, but our crew is still our crew, and we wan't to know why they're not steering the ship like we pay them to." <br />
<br />
Oh great, now the captain's jumped overboard and the purser is just standing around looking awkward. <br />
<br />
"Tough tits!" cry the 17 people. "17 of us voted for the new boat, and we're all going on it because 17 of us said so!"<br /><br />"Yes, but 16 of us said not, so we're all going - all 65 of us - because of ONE person! Even the kids are going, and enough of them wanted to stay on the old boat to have made the vote go the other way."<br />
<br />
"Yes but the kids can't vote."<br /><br />"Well, don't you think they should be able to? They are going to have to live on the boat for a lot longer than the rest of us."<br /><br />
"No but 17 of us said we wanted the new boat!"<br /><br />"Well, two have said that they don't, so that will make it 18/15 in favour of the old boat, and we think a fair few of the people who didn't vote last time will make fucking sure they get to the polling station this time, so we think that even more of us want the old boat."<br /><br />"No but 17 of us said we wanted the new boat!"<br />
<br />
"But some of you have changed your minds."<br />
<br />
"No but that doesn't matter - 17 of us said we wanted the new boat!"<br />
<br />
"But some of you made your decision based on some things which have now been absolutely shown to be lies."<br />
<br />
"No but 17 of us said we wanted the new boat!"<br />
<br />
"But some of you have said that you just did that as a protest, to make the crew listen to you - but now you've stuck yourself with just this crew and no recourse to a second crew."<br /><br />"Tough TIIIIITS! You've HAD your democratic vote - that's your lot!"<br />
<br />
"Really? But it really matters - it's forever."<br /><br />"Just get on with it. Don't you like village fetes and cream teas and pubs? What's wrong with you? Why are you so miserable - you're getting everyone down!"<br /><br />"I love village fetes and cream teas and pubs, but I also love fiestas and bratwurst and drinking coffee on the pavement outside a café in Paris! Yes, I am fucking miserable, because I can't do all of that any more because you don't want to, and I don't think that's fair."<br />
<br />
"Life isn't fair. Cheer up. We won. You lost. There was one more of us than there was of you, and even though that person at least has changed their mind, it's tough, because on that day two weeks ago, that was what they thought, and you, or rather we - all 65 of us - are just going to have to live with that forever."<br />
<br />
<br />Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-71005247501762041212016-06-30T06:36:00.001-07:002016-06-30T06:36:45.389-07:00Democracy! For one night only!<div class="MsoNormal">
I enjoyed that democracy. Can I have some more, please, because I’m not
used to it and I’m not sure I used it to its, or indeed my, best advantage?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">More?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>MORE?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, you bloody can’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s enough democracy for you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Very Dickensian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which is jolly British and ever so nice if
you ignore Mr Dickens’s brilliant social commentary and biting wit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I get why the people who are happy with
their vote to leave the EU don’t want a second referendum.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">What I don’t get is that they shout
“Democracy!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The People have spoken!” as
a reason not to have a second referendum.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Look, lads – you can’t have it both ways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">If a referendum is democratic, how is two
referenda undemocratic?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Does there come a point where too much democracy sends the whole thing into a
handbrake turn and it turns in on itself?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> What nonsense.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Democracy is a good
thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s have all the
democracy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">People who are happy with their vote to
leave are not going to change their vote.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">People who are happy with their vote to
remain are not going to change their vote.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">People who are not happy with their
decision (either way) on 23<sup>rd</sup> June, given the enormous amount of information
which has since come to light surely have the right to be heard?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">How is that not democratic?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I’m actually campaigning on behalf of Leave
voters, here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It transpires that the Leave campaign told
some very large lies and based their campaign on policies which they had
neither the power nor the ability to deliver. They haven't got £350million to give to the NHS. They have no money and if they did, they wouldn't give it to the NHS, as they have already stated that they want to privatise the NHS - yes, that means you pay for your healthcare. They also are not going to stop or cap or limit immigration, because they can't - and they knew they couldn't but they still based their campaign heavily on this. They had no plan in place for what to do next, because they didn't mean to win.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">People now know this and they feel cheated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It transpires that a lot of people voted to
leave the EU just as a protest against the government, and actually wanted to
stay.<br />
<br />
People now wish they had used their right to protest in a different way and
feel robbed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We also hear that people weren’t sure
whether the referendum was advisory or legally binding – it sure wasn’t stated
on the tin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Well, it’s not legally binding but, hell’s bells, 1 million more people, on one
day, with a flawed and false campaign pushing them, wanted it, so let’s all go
to hell in a handcart, because sticking to your guns, in this country, even
when you get new information that demonstrates that you were wrong, is seen as
a virtue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This lady’s not for turning,
my arse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The popular press are finally printing some
truths about what leaving the EU will actually mean to the average man on the
street, rather than printing a load of emotive rhetoric, over Union Jack
backgrounds, about how leaving the EU will Make Britain Great Again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The average man on the street, now
understanding what it means to him, feels horrified and wants to be given a
second chance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">28% of the population believed either that
we were going to remain in the EU by an easy majority or that their vote
wouldn’t count anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">They now realize that this didn’t happen
and that every single vote counted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Whether they would have voted to stay or go, they deserve to be heard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Young people, aged 16-18, were not included
in the vote.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are demanding to be
heard, and they are the ones whose world was just made a little smaller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A little more insular.<br /><br />I believe they should be heard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">How does allowing any of these people to speak again qualify as undemocratic?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Democracy wasn’t just for the 15 hours that
the polling booths were open.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Democracy is ongoing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">When we hear new facts, we CAN change our
opinions.<br />
<br />
What I’d really like to do is wind back the clock and let people remember
everything they have learned this last week, and give them chance to vote again
for the first time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sadly, even though
I’ve concentrated so hard I strained myself and risked a recurrence of my umbilical hernia, I
can’t manage that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
But I’d really like everyone to get a second chance to speak and vote in the
non-science-fiction world that we live in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>With no Leave Campaign and no Remain Campaign pushing everyone’s buttons
and playing with peoples lives for their own entertainment and the furtherance
of their own careers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just a Campaign of
Information – calm, measured information that will help The People to make an
informed decision.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The People Have Spoken. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> So what? </span>Are The People never allowed to speak again?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-73286166304340906142016-06-30T06:29:00.003-07:002016-06-30T06:29:54.773-07:00The European Union, and why I’m unlikely to “Get Over It” any time soon<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Written on
Monday 27<sup>th</sup> June, four days after the results came in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">My Facebook feed is divided into two groups
of friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Friends who are bewildered
and horrified that we have just voted ourselves out of Europe, and are trying
to make sense of it and dig heels in to stop it from coming to pass <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>-<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and
friends who are fed up with the people who are still talking about it and want
everyone to accept it and move on to making Britain great again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I am beyond happy that my friend list
doesn’t include one single person who wants anyone sent home or who advocates
racism in any way, no matter which way they voted – and more of that, later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s important to me to explain why this is
so important to me, because I really value my friends and I am aware that some
of them must be sick to the bloody back teeth of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also want to try to articulate what it is
that makes some of us feel so strongly about this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In the run up to this referendum, right up
until the day, I felt thoroughly nauseous at the possible ramifications but I
worked hard to comment on the debate as calmly, informatively and in as
non-partisan a manner as I could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This is hard for someone in my position,
who believes with every fibre of her being in a unified Europe, but I really
believed that not ramming my views down people’s throats, while explaining
where general reporting and understanding was either deliberately or
accidentally erroneous was the way forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I just really wanted to help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Still do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I think one of my mistakes in the way I
approached debating this before the referendum was in being wholly logical,
tackling the facts and deliberately trying not to get heated about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t want to scare anyone away from
voting to remain in the EU with my sheer all-encompassing passion and belief in
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tackled the Big Lies which the
Leave campaign employed, and which they are now having to admit were indeed
whoppers, but I never addressed the emotional side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So here it is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In January 1974, my family moved to
Brussels, where my dad was one of the first wave of Brits working out
there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We weren’t rich or privileged, we
were just an ordinary working class family from the UK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My Dad’s dad was a Kent coal miner and my
Mum’s dad stoked coal into furnaces in a hospital, in eight hour shifts,
morning, noon and night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dad, and all
the people out there, had simply seen an ad in their local paper and sat a
series of exams, followed by a grueling interview process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In other words, ordinary people had applied
for a job in an ordinary manner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We, however, had a deep belief in the ethos
of the EU from the start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mood in Europe at that time was one of
hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A wholly optimistic belief in a
bright future with a fundamental emphasis on no further wars within and between
the countries of Europe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No more young
men would be sent to fight and die on the battlefields of France, Belgium, Holland
– you get the idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
I, and my school friends, were bought up as genuine children of Europe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We believe in it wholeheartedly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
The implementers of this ideal were mostly young families from all over
Europe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their parents had lived through
and fought in the Second World War, and they wanted a better future for their
children - and believe you me, they worked their arses off to ensure that
neither they nor their compatriots, nor their opposite numbers from other
member states (aka EU countries) would ever have to send their children, the
children they had travelled across the continent to bring to Brussels with them,
off to fight the children that they were meeting and befriending, going to
school with, playing with.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I spent my entire school life, bar my very
first term, in Brussels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My school was
set up by the EU to cater for the kids coming from all over Europe to build
this bright new world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I don’t have much recollection of life in
England – I was four when we moved to Brussels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I clearly remember my first day at school in Brussels, however.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The school was enormous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All on one site, the age went from
kindergarten right up through primary through to the European Baccalaureat –
A-level age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were at that time six
language sections – English, Franco-Belge, Nederlando-Belge, German, Danish and
Italian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So take infant school, add
primary and secondary school, put it all in one place then multiply by six and
you’ve an idea of the size of the place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Thirty to a class and more than one class per year group per language
section, in some cases.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were some
3,500 students there by the time I left – at which point we also had a Spanish
and a Greek section. <br />
<br />
Because philosophy is a compulsory subject in Italian schools, it was a
compulsory subject at the European school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All the language sections had to study it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The same with economics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The UK’s contribution to this was compulsory
RE.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(My mum’s contribution was to add an
Ethics option to the Religion thing.)<br />
<br />
From the age of four, my playmates were chiefly British, as in primary school
most of our lessons were conducted in our mother tongue, so we sat alongside
our own countrymen for most of the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Playtime, however, we were all mixed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hundreds of kids of different nationalities, playing together in an
enormous playground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We really didn’t
much notice whether someone was English, Italian, French, German, Danish,
Belgian – we didn’t CARE!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We either
liked them or we didn’t, and their nationality never once had anything to do
with that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
As we grew up together, the national distinctions became even less marked, as
we all learned each others languages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By
the time we left school at 18, there was a definite European School lingo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because everyone spoke at least four
languages, you would find the mot or phrase juste in whichever language first
sprung to mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
When I first moved back to the UK – to London, to study Law at King’s College –
I realized that it was going to be an effort to speak just one language at a
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were a few of us Eurobrats
at King’s, and there was some resentment to begin with, as we appeared a little
elitist, with our European manner and our peppering of our conversation with
whole sentences in any old language we chose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It wasn’t deliberate – we didn’t think we were better than anyone else –
it was just how we spoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, it
now occurs to me that the only time in my life when I have felt awkward, alien
and out of place was that first six months back in “my own country”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Until now, that is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Moving along!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This misunderstanding
soon settled down and we integrated well enough – we were, after all, used to
adapting to people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The language thing is a microcosm of the
whole thing, of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As much as we
pinched words and phrases from one another, we pinched bits of culture that we
liked, and, without realizing it, all sorts of other bits and pieces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We became intermingled, European, unified. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, we all still spoke our first language
primarily, and we all knew that we were British Europeans or Italian Europeans
or Belgian Europeans, and there was plenty of partisan banter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We identified with both our home nations and
our EU status.<br />
<br />
The idea of going to war against our schoolmates, in the past, present or
future, was wholly – wholly – argh!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There isn’t a big enough word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Anathema.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not strong enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alien.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unthinkable is what it was
- but really think about what unthinkable means.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It means it is so apart from your
understanding that you can’t even think it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Does not compute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Going to war
with those guys – is that even a thing?”<br />
<br />
By the way, in case you think the school sounds like a hotbed of elitism, I
think I should at this point explain how it worked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyone who worked for the EU, EC, EEC,
whatever it was called at the time, was entitled to send their kids to the school,
for free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An enormous organization such
as the EU doesn’t just employ Director Generals and highly paid boffins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cleaners, security guards and canteen
workers had the same right to send their kids to our school as the Director
General.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I have always been immensely proud of this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Very democratic – part of the ideal they are
striving for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I grew up knowing that I could work in any
country in the EU.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As an adult, I could
just up sticks and go and live wherever I chose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once I had a family, I could take my children
and my husband, all of whom had that right as much as I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My children could choose to study art in
Italy or engineering in Germany – or the other way around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or just go and live in Paris for a couple of
years, working their way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This right, which my dad worked almost his
entire working life to create and nurture and protect, has just been taken away
from me and from my kids, and I feel bereaved and very angry about this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The belief that we are one united Europe,
which was so deeply held in my very soul, has been destroyed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel like someone reached in, ripped it
out, tore it to shreds in front of my eyes, hurled it to the floor, dashed it
with petrol and burnt it in front of my eyes, and I am reeling to my core at
this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It may sound overly dramatic to you, but I
am not exaggerating my feelings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And while they’re doing it, they’re
cheerily telling me to stop moping, it will be fine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I have tried a thousand analogies in my
head, and I can’t make them work, but imagine that the village or borough, where
you live and which you love, decided to take a vote as to whether you stay part
Britain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s 100 people in your village.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>28 of them don’t vote, for any number of
reasons – maybe one of them didn’t get home from work in time due to trains
being totally effed up and major commuter stations actually closing (can’t even
remember the last time that happened).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>35 vote to stay part of Britain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>37 vote to go it alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Going it alone means that your kids HAVE to go to the village school, and if
the next village has a better degree course in something than yours does, it’s
tough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If they just fancy going and
living in the next village because the view is nice from there and there’s a
company there specializing in an area which particularly interests them and at
which they are particularly skilled, they can’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the votes have finished being counted, it
transpires that the people who presented the case for leaving Britain
lied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quite a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re actually not going to look after the
little cottage hospital in the village, for a start, and they didn’t expect to
win so they don’t have a plan as to what to do next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite the fact that they said they know
there’s not a lot of houses left in the village and they’ll make sure they stop
people from outside the village buying the ones that are available, or working
in the village shop, they now admit that actually they are not going to be able
to do this, and they never were. A few of those who voted to leave come out and
say that they did so because they don’t like the parish councilor, and they
thought this was a good way of showing that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Some more say that they voted that way because they wanted their taxes
to go to the cottage hospital, and they feel that they were lied to, and want
to change their vote.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More yet say that
they hadn’t realized that they were actually voting to leave Britain, and that
they never thought it would happen, and that they want to change their vote.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Basically, that very small margin of two
people (as you’ll have worked out, this is based on the percentage of turnout,
then votes for and against) has potentially been heavily eroded.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But don’t worry, those of you who didn’t
want to leave in the first place, we’re pretty sure it will work out in the
end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Probably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br />
As it stands, in the UK, 28% didn’t vote.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>37% voted to leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>35% voted to
stay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Is it democratic to blindly stick with it
and push on, forcing the view of 37% of the eligible voters on the other 63%?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Or is it more democratic, before making this irreversible change – because make
no mistake, there is no going back – to jussssst check one more time?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
If the result comes back the same, so be it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If the people who want to leave still believe that it is right to do so,
in the same numbers, the vote will stay the same, so where’s the harm?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
If it turns out that it goes the other way because people now realize that is
NOT what they want – how is that undemocratic?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But on that tiny margin, with a lot of
people now changing their minds, with the Sun and the Mail and the Express
finally printing what will happen next with an unprecedented degree of
accuracy, and their readers going “What? What? Why didn’t you tell us before?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We didn’t know!”, with the Leave campaign
admitting that two of their three major platforms – increased spending on the
NHS and reduced immigration– were just bollocks (the others are largely bollocks,
too, by the way – they just haven’t admitted it quite yet), with this increase
in racism which has fundamentally shocked all right thinking people whether
they voted to leave or remain, I think the democratic and sensible thing is to
re-examine this. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Is it not sheer pig-headedness to ignore
the hundreds of thousands of people who are no longer sure they want what they
voted for?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think so.<br />
<br />
Democracy is government of the people, by the people, for the people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s all the people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not 37% of the people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We have a very adversarial culture in the
UK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are very black and white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The very layout of the House of Commons is
adversarial – face to face, head to head, us and them, rather than circular.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
First Past The Post sets up a system where everyone in the country is ruled by
a parliament almost always elected by less than half the country, rather than
by a parliament who represent the proportion of each party that people actually
voted for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone therefore has to toe
the party line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tories have to back Tory
policies most of the time whether they like it or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Labour the same.<br />
<br />
The deep rifts opening up in our society at the moment are a result of our view
that you are either with us or against us – what’s it going to be?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
And so now we have US and THEM, and I don’t wonder that so many people just
want the fighting to stop, but I also don’t wonder that so many others are
desperate to make sure – really sure – that everyone knows what we’re doing and
is not prepared to lie down and say die until we all know this is what we
REALLY want.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not inevitable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s still fluid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is still, potentially, a little wiggle
room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s make sure we know what we’re
doing before we slam any doors and turn the lock.<br />
<br />
Back to our adversarial nature - as a result of the fact that we tend to back a
side and fight our arses off for it, nobody really questioned that there was a
campaign for Leave and a campaign for Remain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Question that!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
There should have been nobody pushing an agenda!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There should not have been a campaign for OR
a campaign against, there should simply have been a campaign of
information.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
As it was, virtually all of the independent information pointed towards
remaining a member of the EU being a damned good idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But because we are used to this adversarial
system, everyone believed that that independent information and analysis was
part of the Remain campaign, and as such dismissed it as electioneering.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, Leave clearly had no intention of winning, or having to fulfill
their insane promises, but they put on a good show and Boris, whose plan was
almost certainly simply to use the campaign as a platform to raise his
political profile, was dismayed to have won and has spent the entire time since
he won looking shell-shocked and back-pedalling like the committed cyclist he
is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It was all jolly exciting and jolly good
fun sticking it to the man, but now the party’s over and we’re left cleaning up
the mess, suddenly a significant portion of people are questioning what they
were told, they are angry that they were lied to, they are shocked that their
protest vote is actually going to change their (and my) world, and they deserve
to be heard.<br />
<br />
I am as angry on behalf of those people as I am for myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">There are some things that I would like to
state categorically, and stand by.<br />
<br />
I do not believe that everyone who voted to Leave is ignorant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know and have debated with some very
intelligent and eloquent Leavers, and I respect their right to their view and
their vote.<br />
<br />
I do not believe that all Leave voters want to change their vote, but I believe
that a significant and growing portion, in the light of new information, do.<br />
<br />
I do believe that all of my friends, both for and against, did their very best
to inform themselves and make what they absolutely believed would be the best
choice for them and their children.<br />
<br />
I do also believe that many Leavers based their vote on a dishonest campaign
and now know that they were lied to on a large scale, but I know that is not
the case for everyone, and I know that it is patronizing to suggest otherwise.<br />
<br />
I do not believe that everyone who voted to Leave is a racist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know this not to be true, and I will stand
up for that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, I must temper this
with the statement that the Leave campaign was incontrovertibly fought on both
overtly and subliminally racist platforms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The tit Farage standing in front of the Breaking Point poster is a case
in point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That should have been a
breaking point, indeed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m surprised
that it wasn’t the moment at which people became sickened by the campaign and decided
not to ally themselves with racism, precisely because they themselves are not
racists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t understand how that
didn’t happen, but I still don’t believe that all, or even most, Leavers are
racists.<br />
<br />
As to the assertions that it will all be okay, because Britain is Great, nobody
knows what will happen next, a country that won two world wars and one world
cup is perfectly capable of standing on its own two feet and we should stop
harping on about what happened last week and get on with this week etc etc – I
do need to address my attitude to that.<br />
<br />
First, I really, really, really hope that everyone who believes this scenario
to be correct is right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no desire
to be proved right in this instance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
want our economy to boom and our nation to thrive – of course I do!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not an idiot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not optimistic at this stage that it
will, but I will do everything in my power (which is very little – same for all
of us average Joes) to ensure that it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s like your teenage daughter hitching a lift home from town despite
the fact that you’ve told her there’s a chance that’s not going to pan out too
well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If she gets home in one piece,
you’ll rejoice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If she doesn’t, you’re
not going to go “I told you so”.<br />
<br />
I’m not being pessimistic – I just believe that when a bunch of people who
study this stuff and who have no axe to grind tell you in overwhelming numbers that
one course of events will almost certainly have a good outcome and one will
almost certainly result in years of struggle, it’s sensible to pay attention to
them, and to acknowledge that they know what they’re talking about. <br />
<br />
If it’s a question of people saying “I realize that there’s a 99% chance that
the economy is going to be in a dreadful state for the next 3-10 years (as
virtually all sources predicted), and I’ve looked into the reasons for that and
into what we will lose and gain, all of which I now broadly understand, but I
think it’s a price worth paying” – fair enough. <br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If it’s a blindly optimistic “ah, what
do they know, anyway”, erm, well, sorry for not playing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is a huge gamble to impose on the 63% of
eligible voters who did not vote for this<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br />
I agree, nobody knows what will happen next, and nobody has a crystal ball to
tell us what would have happened if we hadn’t done whatever we choose to do
next, so there will be no point in “I told you so”, either way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not something I intend to indulge in,
should things go horribly wrong.<br />
<br />
If I have accept being asked to stop harping on about how devastated I am about
this, I really think we should also stop harping on about world wars and world
cups, especially disallowed goals in world cups. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was a bloody long time ago and people are
still moaning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All we lost then was a
football match.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have lost so much
more, now – even if the economy does well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
<br />
So, my loves, I will continue to harp on, I’m afraid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope you will see that what I’m doing is
not moaning, but posting relevant information.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Where the Leave campaign is shown to have
lied or been economic with the truth, I will be posting that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Where there is hope for a way to address
whether it is right, in a democratic society, for 37% of the population to be
given a mandate to strip a whole shitload of actual rights from themselves and
the other 63% (35% of whom actively voted to keep those rights, and 28% of whom
didn’t vote at all but definitely didn’t vote their rights away), especially
when an emergingly significant portion of that 37% has now come out and stated
that now that it is in possession of the facts, it would like to change its
vote, please, thank you very much, I am going to keep hoping that the dream of
a unified Europe can continue, and because I am an open book, those hopes will
continue to be expressed in social media.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Petitions will be shared and clear
statements about the effect that this has had already on the food industry,
banking, jobs and the £ - I’ll still be posting those as long as there is any
hope that people will realize what is happening and demand not to be bound to
this minority vote.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I believe in not blindly following the
result of this referendum precisely because I do believe in democracy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is plenty of precedent for referenda on
important matters, carrying slim slim margins, being set aside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
I don’t think we can ignore the result of this referendum – that’s not what I’m
suggesting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe it would be
downright dangerous to do so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The result has surprised a great many
people (not least the Leave campaign) and it shows that people need a
voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t argue with that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fear that not triggering article 50 and
taking us out of the EU will cause anger and unrest, but we appear to have
those right now anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br />
Addendum.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I forgot to address the “unelected,
undemocratic” issue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will try to do it
briefly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not my forte, clearly! :D<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br />
I also believe, for what it’s worth, that it is worth considering this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
There is a very strong argument that fact that legislation can be proposed
either by experts in a field, who work for the European Commission (like my
Dad), or other EU bodies, or any citizen of the EU (like you or me) as is the
case in the system we now have with the EU, is altogether a more democratic
system than one in which legislation can only be proposed by a Member of
Parliament who, while he WAS elected by the people, inevitably has his eye on
being elected once again next time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
is therefore not going to propose any legislation which may be unpopular in his
constituency. <br />
<br />
So you get that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A massive point for
Leave is that laws are proposed by the unelected European Commission.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They can also be proposed by YOU.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As you sit reading this – YOU.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a notional you, YOU!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Not some MP you almost certainly didn’t
vote for (because you only voted for one out of the 651-odd of the buggers,
after all) – YOU!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Sounds pretty fucking democratic to me, my
loves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-25582454227494734602016-06-30T06:20:00.003-07:002016-06-30T06:20:51.602-07:00£350,000,000 worth of Zumba Maths.<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The £350m etc explained through the medium
of Zumba, written during the week running up to the Referendum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span><br />This is all an analogy – it’s
not really my mum, the fee is not £35 etc etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s just a way of explaining something that seems to be confusing
people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I pay a monthly license fee to teach
Zumba.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s say, for the sake of
clarity, that this is £35.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">However, a few years back, my Mum went to
see the Zumba head office and asked if I could just pay £25, instead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They said yes, which was jolly nice of them, because there wasn't really a reason why I should, but I said I wouldn't play, otherwise.<br />
<br />
I get a CD every month, with Zumba music on, for which the Zumba people have
paid the Performing Rights – so I can use that music for free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every other month, I also get a DVD of
choreography.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t have to use these,
but it probably works out at a value, for a CD and half a DVD every month, of –
let’s call it £18.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
So I’m paying a £35 license fee (which is actually £25) but I’m getting an £18
value back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br />
There are other inherent outgoings, such as hall hire, insurance, footwear,
exercise gear, physiotherapy etc etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I add the costs up, they’re a lot.<br />
<br />
However, I get the right to enter the Zumba market and teach my classes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This earns me a considerable amount more than
I pay in, even after the outgoings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
know how much I earn from Zumba, and I reckon it’s a bloody good deal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What I can’t put a figure on is all the other
things I’ve gained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Through meeting
people I wouldn’t have met otherwise, my other businesses have also flourished,
I have extremely good friends I’d never have met otherwise, I have learned
styles of dance I didn’t know before and listen to music I would never have
come across, and my life has been enriched beyond measure by all of these
things. But they are unquantifiable, and I don't want to muddy the water - I'm going to assume you understand that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br />
I could set up my own system of dance classes, where I don’t have to pay the
license fee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have to pay out for market research and marketing to make sure that I chose
something that was going to work, and got it out there in front of people,
making them want it more than something they already know about and know to be
effective.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have to do a lot of
research in terms of safety etc to ensure that I wasn’t teaching anything
dangerous- BUT!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would save myself that £35
(or rather £25) but I wouldn’t get that £18 CD and DVD.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d still be saving myself £7 a month,
though. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I’m not sure I could do all that research
and marketing for £7, but maybe I should give it a go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And hope that people come along.<br />
<br />
The daughters will squeal with delight and suggest we use the £35 (£25) to join
a gym.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will laugh and explain that it
is not enough to join the gym, plus I haven’t earnt that £35 because I haven’t
been teaching Zumba to earn it, and besides, I’d rather spend it on shoes.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, Zumba would still be going on, with other instructors, and people
would be entitled to choose to go to them, of course.<br />
<br />
As to that pesky old share of the Basingstoke Zumba market (AKA World Trade):<br />
<br />
Five years ago, when I started teaching, 100 people a night attended a Zumba
class in Basingstoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>20 of them came to
my class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a 20% share of the
market.<br />
<br />
Now, 200 people a night come to Zumba.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>30 of them come to my class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>I only have a 15% share of the total market.<br /><br />And yet I
have grown my business by 50%.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Get it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Got it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-63377062155499681222016-01-16T07:07:00.000-08:002016-01-16T07:07:05.768-08:00Eye eye.On Friday morning as I drove Olivia up to school, we looked up to see the most glorious sunrise. It was stunning. Awe-inspiring. The kind of thing which stirs you to your very soul. I nearly burst into tears.<br /><br />
I'm sometimes a bit emotional about beauty, but there is a good reason for this particular bout of emotion.<br /><br />This week, I nearly lost my vision in one eye.<br />
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I need to remember how it unfolded, and I want people to know the symptoms because it might help someone else not lose their sight, so for that reason, I'm writing it all up here.<br />
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There'll be a bit of anecdotal rambling first, because I'm incapable of avoiding that no matter how I try, so if you get bored, scroll down to the big asterisk below.<br /><br />Background information, first.<br />
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Back in October, I had a routine eye test. Being pretty fiercely myopic (-6 in both eyes), I don't think twice about eye tests. In fact, I have them so regularly that I question how valid they are because I can actually reel off the letters on the chart with my eyes closed. I have begged for a new chart, but no dice.<br />
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Anyhoo. This particular eye test was a little different. As I was casually reeling off such literary delights as VOTH and LPED, I realised that, with my right eye, as I looked directly at the letters, they disappeared. I could see them if I looked around them but if I looked directly at them, they simply were not there. The optician could not see any problems with my eye, but suggested that it was probably worth looking into.<br />
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The following week was half term and we headed over to Belgium to visit my parents. My mother has had serious problems with her eyes, and as such is on first name terms with Belgium's premier eye doctor. It's a two month wait for appointments, but he agreed to squeeze me in two days later. His examination showed something odd and he said that I needed to be seen urgently by his mate who had a machine specific to the problem which he thought I had - a super-powerful HD imaging thing which would scan a slice of my eye and show us exactly what was going on. Unfortunately, that wasn't going to be possible before we returned home the next day. Once we were back home and back into a week, I rang Moorfields and was admitted the next day as an emergency.<br />
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Various machines wot go ping (and some wot actually ping physically ON your eyeball - bloody unnatural) came into play, including a super-powerful HD imaging thing which scanned a slice of my eye and showed us exactly what was going on, which, it turns out, is a touch of the old vitreo-macular traction, resulting in a blind spot and surrounding distortion right in the centre of my vision. <br /><br />It looks like this: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2KOZLtfAl4i9QnMe4GC-GgmqIuwXaACDoVNNCqZf084Ropz5T77m8eHybwm2LBBXEE5ojbgRR5Uu2aFIPKlIlCwCRjDv4wlJBBO8DSLmkBLRlsBW54vxWg1DSntqnKEFIlNVBPlXhga8/s1600/IMG_2292.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2KOZLtfAl4i9QnMe4GC-GgmqIuwXaACDoVNNCqZf084Ropz5T77m8eHybwm2LBBXEE5ojbgRR5Uu2aFIPKlIlCwCRjDv4wlJBBO8DSLmkBLRlsBW54vxWg1DSntqnKEFIlNVBPlXhga8/s320/IMG_2292.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Yeah, that's the inside of my actual eyeball. Nice. It's hard to see, but above the thick undulating layer, very close to the top of the image, there's a thin white line which follows the curve. This is the macula. Where the little dimple is in the middle, the white line actually pitches down sharply and attaches back to the main bit. This is the traction. <br /><br />And this is what it looks like from my side:</div>
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<a href="http://www.institutmacula.com/wp-content/uploads/rejilla-1024x410.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.institutmacula.com/wp-content/uploads/rejilla-1024x410.jpg" height="128" width="320" /></a></div>
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Somewhere between picture one and picture two, but much smaller - it hasn't affected that proportion of my eyesight.<br /></div>
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Not ideal, but apparently no major drama, and it was a question of having a check-up 6 weeks or so later, as it's the kind of thing which can conceivably just sort itself out. A letter was typed off and dispatched to my GP, asking him to arrange a referral, and a copy was handed to me for my own reference. Nice touch. We don't get enough of that. </div>
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6 weeks or so later was Christmas, and as a result, it ended up being nearer to 8 weeks by the time I remembered that this should have happened, and chased my GP, who denied all knowledge - for one reason or another, he had never received a letter from Moorfields instructing him to arrange a referral for a follow-up. </div>
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I would have chased this up straight away, but I was a little preoccupied, as the reason I was at the GP's in order to check this was that Olivia had a hacking cough, for which she had already been seen once, with a horrendously high temperature. She was given antibiotics and I thought I'd go home and chase up Moorfields over the next couple of days. Olivia, however, got worse, and on Friday last week I took her back to the Doctor where he checked her SATS (oxygen saturation levels in the blood) and asked me whether I was okay to drive her to hospital or would I rather he got us an ambulance. I elected to drive, and while he was doing the paperwork, I mentioned that Maddy had had a collision in netball at school on Tuesday and was still complaining of a sore shoulder in the collarbone area. He stated categorically that I should haul her out of school and down to A&E for an X-ray.</div>
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Potential logistical nightmare, but as fluke would have it, Simon was off work, so while I rang school to have Maddy sent out and drove Olivia to the hospital, Simon collected Maddy and drove her along, too. So there we were. Me on the 6th floor with Olivia. Simon in A&E with Maddy. </div>
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This seemed bad enough, then Maddy was diagnosed with a broken collarbone, and Olivia was put on oxygen and admitted for an undetermined stay in the hospital. I can't really express how frightening that was. If your children have ever been in hospital, you know, so let's not labour the point.<br /><br />Four days later, late on Monday, we were discharged and Olivia was allowed home. </div>
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Tuesday was a relatively normal day, with Maddy at school and Olivia having a final day off to recuperate.</div>
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Wednesday seemed like it was finally going to be the proper, real start to the year, with everything under control, work being possible, children learning stuff and not being critically ill. Aces. </div>
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Thoughts turned to myself, and I rang Moorfields, who found my notes and faxed a copy of the referral letter to my GP, for adding to notes, but told me meanwhile to come in as an outpatient in the next week or so and they would give me a follow-up appointment without needing the involvement of any other parties. Pretty cool.<br /><br />I had noticed over Christmas that I was getting some flashing lights, when I blinked at night. By Wednesday, I was able to see these during daylight and for most of that day that I had a small floater (snurk snurk - sorry - I know - pathetic) in the corner of my eye, meaning that I spent a high portion of the day whipping my head around to look over my shoulder. I kept thinking that something was creeping up on me. Most distracting.</div>
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In the evening, I went out to teach Zumba, feeling perfectly fine. In the middle of one of the tracks, and noticed that the floater had become far bigger and was beginning to move across my eye. It looked like ornate, black ink, scroll-work or calligraphy flourishes. Very attractive but scary as fuck. Over the course of the next few seconds, it continued to move across my vision and suddenly exploded in slow motion across my vision. It looked like when you drop marbling ink on water:<br /><br />First this:<br /><a href="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/-n5MJvGvhKA/maxresdefault.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/-n5MJvGvhKA/maxresdefault.jpg" width="320" /></a><br /><br />Then this:<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://afterschool.smarttutor.com/files/2013/05/Paper-Marbling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://afterschool.smarttutor.com/files/2013/05/Paper-Marbling.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />I stopped the music and turned to my class to say that I had to stop and go home. As I very seldom so much as take a day off sick, it was clearly a bit of an event. <br /><br />My participants were very understanding and I left quickly, driving home (hmm) to ring Moorfields. I described the symptoms to the very nice man on the end of the phone, who told me to come in.<br /><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br />Me: First thing in the morning okay?<br />Him: No. You need to get here now.</div>
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With the girls newly out of hospital and with a broken collarbone respectively, we didn't feel we could offload them on someone while we both charged up to London - too scary for them - so, pausing only to whip out my lenses and sling both a book and kindle in my handbag (chronic fear of being somewhere with nothing to read *shudder*) Simon drove me to the station (still in my Zumba gear, thankfully not sweaty as it happened early in the class) and put me on a train to London. </div>
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Of course, while on the train, there's nothing to do but worry, is there? So from being calm, together and getting on with it, I turned into a gibbering, sobbing, snivelling wreck and did what all self-respecting gibbering, sobbing, snivelling wrecks do. I rang my mum. As she'd only just gone home having raced over to help us out over the weekend with the whole "being in two places at once" scenario, I forbade her from coming over again, and rang my brother to see if he was in London. After a bit of panicking re non-answering of phones (he was a the theatre), I got through and my lovely brother met me at Waterloo and accompanied me throughout the rest of the night, doing a bloody good job of taking my mind off it all.<br /><br />We got to Moorfields around 10.30pm, where we were efficiently checked in, triaged (possibly not a verb) and seen by a second nurse who did various preliminary tests. Around midnight, I saw a doctor who began the consultation with what came across as an everso very slightly smirky "so what has prompted you to run all the way up from Basingstoke at this time of night?". I guess he sees a few hypochondriacs. Either that or I totally projected my own fear that I was being a drama queen onto his entirely innocent question. He smirked a little less when I told him it was not my first time at Moorfields, and still less when he'd had a look in my eye.<br /><br />"Ah, you have a bad tear in your retina. We will need to operate first thing in the morning."</div>
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What? What?! A torn retina? Hm. Okay. Kind of what I was expecting, if I'm honest. How serious is it, Doc - will I lose my sight?<br /><br />"If fluid leaks through the tear and lifts your retina away, you will get a detached retina and lose the vision in your eye."</div>
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"Do you mean go blind in that eye?"<br /><br />"Yes."<br /><br />"Okay, and the likelihood of that is?"<br /><br />"There's no way of telling, but we will operate first thing in the morning. It's a nice fresh tear" (oh good!!!) "so the chances are good that there will be no complications."<br /><br />"Is there anything I can do to minimise the likelihood of fluid leaking through?"<br /><br />"Not really, no. Don't jump off anything high. Or operate any pneumatic drills."<br /><br />Thinks: "Great."<br /><br />"Just show up tomorrow morning at 8.30 in the retinal emergency unit, with this letter."</div>
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We returned to my brother's via a comedy cab ride - "you two had a lovely evening, have you? You lawyers, are you?" - er, no and no, but so it went on. Jon distracted him beautifully, allowing me to wake Simon up and tell him what had happened. The cabbie managed somehow to find all the cobbled streets and speed bumps between the City and Kennington, so I spent most of the cab ride hovering above the seat trying not to jolt my eyeball about. Great for the thighs.<br /><br />At 8am, after four hours of not very efficient sleep and some pretty funky dreams, I was back in the hospital, clutching my letter, and feeling sick as a bloody pig, my loves. In all the excitement, I hadn't asked enough questions. I like to know what is going to happen. I didn't even know if I would be okay to leave the hospital unaccompanied. As Jon had had to go to work and I was on my own, this was a pretty stupid question not to have asked. It turns out, yes - not a problem. Which was kind of reassuring about the whole thing.<br /><br />I was the first person called, which was nice, and the lovely nurse assessed me and put dilating drops in my eyes, with many jokes about how she likes doing this to young men as it makes them cry, but doesn't like doing it to ladies. I'm sure she has a different line for all the different patients she has - one which would put anyone at their ease. She was an Asian lady of indeterminate age - tiny and birdlike (such a cliché, but she was), beautiful and funny, efficient and charming. </div>
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With pupils like a fully committed pill-popping maniac, I returned to the waiting room, assuming I'd be there for another hour or so, and was once again called almost immediately.<br /><br />"Hi, I'm Miles, I'll be doing your retinoplexy today. Let's have a bit of a look and see how it's presenting."<br /><br />Miles, like everyone I have met at Moorfields, was an entirely charming person. They are so quietly confident in their ability to save your sight, and so delightful in their self-deprecation, I felt that I was in the best of care throughout the whole horrible experience. I cannot emphasise enough how frightened I was that my tear would prove inoperable and I would lose my sight. I also cannot over-emphasise how little fear I had that the operation would go wrong. Even as I signed the consent form confirming that I was aware that the operation could result in permanent loss of vision, not one iota of me brooked the possibility that Miles in particular, and Moorfields in general, would let this happen to me. I hadn't really worked that out until I'm writing it now, and to be honest, it's made me totes emosh. *dabs eyes, womans up, carries on*</div>
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Miles filled my eyes with numbing drops, which are absolutely amazing. I don't have any squeamishness about things touching my eyes, as I've worn contact lenses since I was 12 years old (profoundly short-sighted and a fairly serious ballerina - couldn't wear glasses for dancing) but I can't say I relish it. He had a good peer into my eyes and pronounced the tear thoroughly operable and fairly easy to reach apart from a couple of areas for which he would have to use a tool directly on my eyeball to depress it and deform it so that the edges of the tear were attainable. <br /><br />Boak. <br /><br />Yeah, I take it back. I discovered a little squeamishness when he demonstrated the kind of thing and I worried that my eyeball would actually pop or pop OUT, but it was pretty much painless, just uncomfortable and icky. Technical term. Meanwhile my phone sprung to life and started pinging, ringing, vibrating, dan-dan-daaaaan-ing and general making its presence felt. Miles patiently (and unnecessarily) suggested that I switched it off. He explained that while he was firing the laser into my eyeball, it may be distracting.<br /><br />At this point he told me that a not inconsiderable amount of fluid had begun to leak behind the retina. If I hadn't rung straight away and come straight in, that leaking would have continued. There is a very good chance that, as I'm sitting here two days after surgery, I would have been completely blind in my right eye.<br /><br />The laser machine, it turned out, was in the other examination room, so we needed to wait for that to become free before he could perform the retinopexy, so it was back to the waiting room, this time with eyes which were not only junkified but numb, too. Mental! Again I expected a long wait, and again I was pleasantly surprised. I was checking all the phone things which had happened, which included a call from School to ask if Olivia was allowed to stay for debating club, a message from Simon that Maddy had decided not to go to A&E after all (arm playing up following Olivia falling over and grabbing Maddy's arm for balance the night before) and FB messages from team members and customers - the life of a self-employed working mother. <br /><br />I'd dealt with school and was ringing Simon to let him know that Olivia was staying late when I was called in - it couldn't have taken more than three minutes.<br /><br />This was the big one. It was finally happening. I was a little nervous (ahahahahahahahaahah) about what was about to happen, so, as is my wont, I asked Miles to describe exactly what he was doing as he was doing it. He was kind enough and patient enough to do so.</div>
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First thing was to lock the door. Apparently you don't want people barging in while you're firing lasers into people's eyeballs, as it can cause complications. If the door needs opening after the laser has been set, the whole process needs annulling and starting again from scratch.</div>
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So, we're locked in. The chair made a dentist's chair look like a bit of an under-performer, and I was comfortably supine. Meanwhile, Miles set a contraption on his head which looked like a combination of an optician's glasses:</div>
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And a miner's helmet:</div>
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The lamp bit being the laser. Yoinks.<br />
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I'd read the Moorfields leaflet on the procedure (which a friend very kindly drew to my attention at 2am - thank heavens for friends who live on the other side of the world) and had half an idea what was going to happen. One of the points in the leaflet about the actual treatment is that it can feel like electric shocks in the eyeball, sharp pain, burning etc. So you'll forgive me for being a little trepidatious. <br />
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Miles asked me how the numbness was and if I wanted any more drops. As I tend to morph into desperate comedy mode under stress, I responded that I've never knowingly turned down a drug in my life. I know. He's heard it all before, hasn't he? But he laughed patiently, and further numbed my eyeballs. I breathed deeply and tried to concentrate on keeping my heart rate nice and steady.<br />
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I should mention that there is no restraint whatsoever involved in this. You hold yourself, your head and your gaze motionless. The surgeon angles his head to point the laser where he is looking and activates it with a foot-switch. Your eyeball is the size that your eyeball is and the laser enters it through your dilated pupil. The margins for error here are tiny. The chances of rupturing a blood vessel or slicing across the optic nerve are, presumably, considerable (I didn't ask, but unfortunately have always been quite interested in human anatomy etc and know just a little more about the inner workings of the eye than I wished, at that point, I knew).<br /><br />This is what happens: <br />
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<br /><br />The dots on the wall of the eye are the small welds to reattach the retina where it belongs.<br /><br />What amazed me is that there was very little sensation, let alone actual pain, involved in what ensued whatsoever.<br /><br />I found it quite mentally disturbing, however, as it was almost exactly like a recurring dream which I have had for many years, and which has woken me into insomnia on many an occasion. <br /><br />The laser, you see, completely dazzles you. So your eye is open, you have to hold it as absolutely still as you can (or you'll end up with someone's tag graffitied on the inside of your eyeball), which in my case was looking up and left, but you can see nothing at all. Your eye is numb, you're looking up, and you see nothing. I don't know why this has been a recurring dream/nightmare for me, but it has. If it were not for that, the experience would not have been in the least bit unpleasant. <br /><br /> There were moments when I could feel the laser on the inside of my eye. Not going to lie, that wasn't nice, caused me to go "argh" and Miles to say "Shall we stop for a minute?", which he did. And then we'd proceed. <br /><br />The bits when the depressor was on my eyeball weren't nice either - mostly when they were close to muscles which are not used to being prodded about. But it was easily, easily bearable.<br />
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A couple of times, Miles called the head of department in to have a look at how it was going, and she suggested he could turn the laser up from 250somethings to 400somethings (at which I turned into tedious comedy patient again, and more or less told her to fuck off, because Miles was doing just fine - I need gagging, really, in these circumstances), which he did, and it was a little more obvious that something was going on in the eyeball, but still entirely bearable.<br />
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I ended up with two rings of welds around my tear, and three at a couple of points where it was tricky. It was harder to get the retina to adhere where the fluid had crept through, so he had to pull back from the tear, leaving more of a space between tear and weld.<br />
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Every time we stopped, I was completely blind in my right eye - I checked that this was normal. I like to know these things. But my vision would slowly creep back.<br />
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Miles would tell me "we're about two-thirds of the way around, and you're doing very well", and generally keep me informed. It felt very much like team-work, which clearly it wasn't. He had years of experience and study and a huge amount of pressure on his shoulders, whereas I just had to keep my eye still. <br /><br />I think the whole thing probably took about half an hour, but I'm not entirely sure. What I do know is that 12 hours after I arrived at Moorfields with an undiagnosed eye problem, I walked out cured.<br />
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It didn't cost me a penny.<br />
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I am SO FUCKING LUCKY!!!<br />
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I came *this* close to losing my sight, and I know what to do if it happens again.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>*</b></span><br />
If you read all of that - well done. If you've skipped down to avoid my rambling, that's fine, too.<br />
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What you need to know:<br />
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If you are very myopic (short-sighted), you are at an increased risk of having a torn retina.<br />
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It can happen at any time - it could happen while you are asleep so if you wake up with blurred or occluded vision, do not hesitate to have yourself checked out.<br />
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Indications that you are at risk of a torn retina are flashing lights and floaters across your vision. These can be specs, lines, dots or larger areas.<br />
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If you see these, get checked out.<br /><br />Find out where your nearest Opthalmic A&E department is. It may be your local hospital or it may not, but if you're very short sighted, you ought to find out just in case.<br /><br />If a large floater appears and does that marbling thing - sort it out! Don't delay. Don't feel like a twat for bothering t'doctor. Just do it.<br />
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Delay marks the difference between saving and losing your sight.<br />
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Don't be afraid of the operation. It's not bad at all.<br /><br />Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-57648468807995566442015-04-13T05:10:00.000-07:002015-04-13T14:07:17.353-07:00False Friends and Not Having The Words<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nothing unpleasant here, chaps. I am very happy to say that I have many true friends and no false ones.</span><br />
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What I'm talking about is those words in two different languages which SEEM to mean the same thing, but don't.</span><br />
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*Time-travel note* That was what I STARTED intending to talk about, but I've gone down several alleys already - some of them blind and some of them intriguing, so, frankly, this could end up being about more or less anything. You carry on reading, and I'll scroll back down to the bit I've got to so far, which is about Cardinal Richelieu, just so you know, when you get there.</span><br />
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We all know that Britain and America are famously separated by a common language - a phrase attributed to George Bernard Shaw - but then pretty much everything which wasn't attributed to Oscar Wilde around that time was attributed to GBS. For all we know, it could have been my ol' great grandma who said that, but someone thought it sounded Shavian. Anyway. Meanwhile, Oscar Wilde was cleverly actually WRITING DOWN a similar sentiment - "<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 21px;">We have really everything in common with America nowadays, except, of course, language." </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 21px;">I'm actually, possibly surprisingly, quite a supporter of the way the Americans speak English. A lot of it is a more perfectly preserved version of the English we spoke back in the day. Sidewalk is of course a far more logical (and original) word for a pavement - certainly before the advent of tar-penetration macadam - or tarmac, as we call it. On a side note, I briefly dated a chap in my late teens whose surname was MacAdam, and who swore blind that his grandfather invented Tarmac. As I did know that it's more proper name is tar-macadam, I accepted this blindly until just now, when I checked, and it was invented by a chap named Edgar Purnell Hooley. Bloody swizz! Cheeky bastard. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 21px;">Meanwhile cookie, once you know that the Dutch for biscuit is koekje, is far less irritating. Lots of the words which are different between English and American are actually Dutch derivations. Cupcakes still piss me off, though. Whatever happened to fairy cakes?</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 21px;">Anyway, this is not meant to be about English and American, although I've got interested in it, now, so in a couple of years, next time I get around to sitting and having a bit of a blog, it might be.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">But while I'm on English and American, I'll just give you two examples of false friends. Bum. And Fag. Thanks. Glad I got those off my chest.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">What I WAS going to talk about was the English and French false friends.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">The first time I came across these was when we all got in a fit of giggles when accompanying my mother to the dentist. I should perhaps clarify at this point that I was about 9 at the time, although I'd still sooner my mum came to the dentist with me than go on my own. Wimp. Anyway. The dentist had rather excellent English, and was therefore merrily chatting away to Mum about her teeth, while poking sharp things in her mouth. She winced, and he informed her that oh dear oh dear, she has very sensible teeth. The poor man had no idea why my brother and I were stuffing our hankies in our mouths and snorting inelegantly in the corner, because, in French, les dents sensibles are <i>sensitive</i> teeth. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">I've been on the lookout ever since and I'm delighted to report that there are many examples.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">The thing is, you see, that the French just don't have the VOCABULARY that we do. I have mentioned this so frequently that my children now spout this particular piece of wisdom with a world-weary air - "Sigh - they just don't have the WORDS, do they, Mummy?"</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">The words for like and love are the same. For kiss and - pardon my French - fuck. While in English someone can trick you or play a trick on you, or, heaven forfend cheat you, in French they can only tricher - a verb. Il m'a tricher. He cheated on me, he tricked me, he played a trick on me - you decide. It's all in the context because they don't have the WORDS, do they, Mummy? As we know, only something like 20% of communication is in the words, the rest is body language, intonation, facial expression etc - which is how you can get in so much damned trouble writing to people. Hence the meteoric rise of the 'emoticon'. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">It is, of course, ridiculous to try to count the number of words in a language, and it always makes me think of the Samuel Johnson episode of Blackadder II. However, it is a generally accepted almost-fact that the English language has approximately 250,000 words. It is equally generally accepted that French has approximately 45,000. Even those of us who had to spend maths lessons sitting in the corner in pointy hats can work out that this is less than a fifth of the number of words. Extraordinary, no?</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">But then, you see, while we spot words and phrases in other languages and joyfully adopt, adapt and make them our own, showing savoir-faire, joie de vivre and a certain je ne sais quoi, the French have the Académie Française, devoted to retaining the purity of the French language. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">This idea has always made me laugh a lot, and finding out that it was started out by that bastard, Cardinal Richelieu (of course, I have only Dumas's word for him being a bastard, but I like Dumas, so I'm sticking with his version of events), suppressed during the revolution (VIVE LA REVOLUTION!) and revived by that dispeptic genius, Napoleon, has only made me laugh harder. Honestly - who'd have thought that Richelieu would STILL be making the French do as he says!</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">Anyway, if you're not familiar with the Académie, briefly, it has 40 members, known as les Immortels (the Immortals - I mean REALLY! The NERVE!) who are granted their posts for life. Unless they do something really naughty. The mind boggles. Maybe using the subjunctive incorrectly, or referring to "le weekend". </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">Actually, I just got interested in that, and rather pleasingly the most recent expulsions were for Academy members cohorting with the Nazis during WWII. I actually feel a tiny degree of warmth towards them for the first time, ever.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">Anyway (again - if you don't have to start at least 14 paragraphs in a chat with the word 'anyway', you've probably stuck to the point toooooo much), basically, it's their job to stick the French language down and approve or disprove any cheeky little words that try to sneak into the language from other places. I can only imagine that this job has become more and more difficult as technology accelerates. They had a great success with 'ordinateur' when computers first came in and people started off by saying 'le computer', but it's all moving so fast now, and I (possibly unfairly) assume that they are not the most technologically literate of croups of people, so it must be hellish hard to keep up with, m'loves.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">Of course, there are two sides to every argument, and while the Academy's pinning down of the French language, which I always envisage as all the words being literally pinned down like butterflies in one of those Victorian cabinets, is the diametric opposite of our liberal "What's that you said? Ooooh, good word! We'll have that!" approach to language, it does give French writers a certain amount of fluff space which we don't have.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #252525;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">Hm. I know what I'm trying to say here, but I'm not sure that fluff space is hacking it. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Well, actually, let's take aimer and baiser, as they were the examples I gave above. There's room for a lot of double entendres (there's another adoption) with those two alone. When you try to translate from French to English, if it's not a technical document, it can sometimes be quite tricky for exactly this reason. The writer may well have deliberately left a wodge of ambiguity for the reader to play with, but the translator has to go in and PIN DOWN the author's meaning! Aha! That's strange, don't you think? That the limiting of words in a language can actually allow for more interpretations? <br />
So while I think it's fabulous that we have five times as many words for funny as the French do, I RAIL at the English subtitles to French films because I almost always entirely disagree with them.<br />
Cyrano de Bergerac is a CLASSIC example of this, and when I am an old, old lady, confined to bed and with nothing else to do, I am going to sit up and re-translate that film because that idiot Anthony Burgess made a proper bloody fist of it. The film is in verse and for some reason best known to himself, Burgess decided the put all the bloody subtitles in verse, too, thus, more often than not, absolutely KILLING the language. Why he wanted to do this is beyond me. Why someone actually let him do this is further beyond me. And how he managed to sleep at night after he'd put his name to this travesty of a translation is beyond me. While, in French, Gerard Depardieu is buckling his swash, swaggering, declaiming and roaring with wit and poetry, Burgess, down in the subtitles, is mincing around like a complete tit strangling - no, too strong - holding a pillow over the face of the film and slowly killing it. I have to put masking tape over the bottom half of the screen to even watch the film these days. TIT.<br />
Well, I told you I'd gone down a blind alley, and I've given you almost no examples of false friends at all. The Nice Man From Asda has just delivered my groceries, and there's a bag of raw frozen prawns thawing out somewhere amongst it, so I must whoosh back to real life and get on with My Chores. I've got loads more to say about this, but if I don't post it, it will never happen. So publish and be damned, woman.<br />
Please feel free to post your false friends in the comments section below. I would be most grateful if someone would haul this blog back towards something resembling its original title...<br />
Cheers.<br />
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Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-7525410638911047372015-04-09T05:51:00.001-07:002015-04-09T09:03:51.421-07:00Temporary LudditeFrom January 2014 - never finished, until now!<br />
_________________<br />
<br />
My computer died! <br />
<br />
This. Was a tragedy.<br />
<br />
To be fair, it had warned me that it was on its way out. It had shown me glossy estate agent details of farms it was considering buying, put up warning signs regarding buckets it was at risk of kicking, and indicated to me that if I could pass it its slippers in order to aid it in its shuffling off of this mortal coil, it would be most grateful.<br />
<br />
As a result of all of this, I had actually made preparations. I know. Extraordinaire. I had taken it to the McHospital (iHospital?) where the Nice Doctor (McGenius?) had a look and said it was basically terminal. We needed a brain transplant. Where, I asked in shock, would one get such a thing? Was it frite-fly expensive? And complex? The Nice Doctor, whose bedside manner was entirely charming in a very trendily geeky way, explained to the Poor Old Lady that one would get such a thing online, it wasn't very expensive, and the surgery itself was sufficiently simple that even the Poor Old Lady would be able to perform it by the simple means of waving a screwfer at the back of the MacBook until its bum fell off. <br />
<br />
Or something. <br />
<br />
But, further, that if this was beyond the capabilities of the POL, the Nice Doctor and his friends would probably help, if the POL came in and wept a bit, although they're not really supposed to do that kind of thing. Helping, not weeping. And that once the brain was in, the Nice Doctor would be able to rehabilitate it, and that it would be such a special and wonderful brain that it would "see <i>you</i> out". That's a quote. I wondered at that point whether the Nice Doctor was <i>quite</i> as nice as I originally thought.<br />
<br />
Anyway. No matter how many things I tell the computer to remember in the future, it will apparently still be alive and able to pass me my slippers when it's <i>my</i> turn to shuffle off this mortal coil. Hurrah! <br />
<br />
All this happened JUST before Christmas (*2013). So I ordered the replacement brain. It was easy! It arrived ten days earlier than advertised, while we were away for Christmas. It arrived the next day, too, and the next, and kept arriving daily until eventually I switched my phone on and found that The Yodel Man (in an appropriately echoey way, considering his company name) had been bouncing to and fro daily, trying to deliver. Sigh. So I rearranged delivery for when it was meant to arrive in the first place.<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<br />
So all of that was now so long ago that I barely remember it (although my feelings on The Yodel Man have, if anything, deteriorated), and the McDoctor put the new brain in the Poor Old Lady's computer, and the POL's MacBook Pro was once more ready to ROCK!<br />
<br />
Until the POL invited her dear friends over, and Penningtons, Milligans and Parkins did imbibe of the gin. In generous quantities. And not just the gin of the Gordon's and the nice Bombay Sapphire people, but the actual home-made Hedge Gin (see elsewhere on blog if you wish to *spoiler alert* hurt yourself and kill your computer) which is largely based on Asda's own brand gin. And Hedge. There then ensued some playing of tunes in the kitchen, just like in the olden days, all gathered around the keyboard. Although not THAT like the olden days, given that the keyboard was operating iTunes and not a piano. At this point, tall glasses of prosecco, with generous measures of various home-made (but not home-distilled, as That Is Against The Law) spirits such as blackberry vodka and raspberry gin, very much à la Kir Royale, but a bit more Kir Pleb, seemed an inordinately good idea. Well, it turns out that the combination of the playing of the music with the waving of the arms, the drinking of the spirits, the quaffing of the bubbles and most especially the placing of the very tall glass next to the laptop was actually an inordinately POOR idea. <br />
<br />
Emergency action was immediately implemented, and the drinking and waving of arms resumed (although without the music - shame). On rising, bleary-eyed the next morning, it transpired that the emergency action, with which we had been quite pleased, on the whole, at the time) had pretty much stopped at making the laptop into a little tent shape, tipping it up and placing a whole roll of Plenty, still on the roll, in its little cavity, as if for a nice night under the stars. <br />
<br />
Needless to say, this cost a fucking FORTUNE to sort out, and took bloody weeks on end. Initially, it was thought that it could probably be done for a couple of 'undred, and hence no need to bother the household insurance wallahs. But once they'd got the bonnet off, there was much sucking of teeth and "werlllll, you've got liquid innit, 'aventcher?"ing from the McChaps. Which was an extraordinarily astute diagnosis, given that I'd taken it in and said "I tried to make it drink spirits but it didn't like it". And RAM was discussed. And top - er - top hampers? No, top - er - something boards. Not washboards. Something though. And something expensive, natürlich, mein lieblings. And some other bits which also didn't take kindly to having booze forced upon them.<br />
<br />
At this point, I told them to just go ahead and fix the bloody thing, as I live my LIFE on the computer. I write recipes on it, blog on it (occasionally, hem hem), sell jewellery on it, do all my Zumba paperwork on it, talk to friends far and wide on it - you get the idea.<br />
<br />
Once I'd finished weeping and breaking the news to the kids that there would be no Christmas, I realised that - tadaaaaa! It actually wasn't going to cost a bean more than the original £200 because this is (probably) what household insurance is for! The nice man at Direct Line was very sympathetic, and once he'd finished tutting about the fact that I'd already sorted it out when he would have liked to have had a go himself (or get some of his friends to have a look or something - presumably for further sucking of teeth and "I couldn't possibly fit it in before a week Tuesday, guv, and that's pushing it"), the cash for the repair was in the account before you'd have had time to say "hang on, where's me cheque book, has the cat eaten it?". Mental.<br />
<br />
It's never been <i>quite </i>the same, though. It keeps telling me it wants coffee. Specifically Java. But then, I suppose we all fancy a coffee after a night on the prosecco and spirits, don't we?<br />
<br />
I know I do.<br />
<br />
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<br />Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-91986271777376677622015-04-09T03:39:00.004-07:002015-04-09T03:39:57.671-07:00The Twattiness of the Short Distance Runner (me)It seems that spring is when I'm moved to blog. I'm not even going to insult you by pretending that I'll blog more frequently this year, or big myself up by pretending you've been desperate for another one in the last year and six days, so no apology either.<br />
<br />
I did do a big thing, yesterday, though.<br />
<br />
I Did Jogging!<br />
<br />
I know. Not a jogger, I. <br />
<br />
However, whenever I have a week or so off from teaching Zumba, even if I don't go bonkers on Easter eggs (I can take 'em or leave 'em - thank god there isn't a worldwide cheese festival where people give each other whole Stiltons and Bries. I'd fucking DIE), I seem to put on a good half a stone, which on my smaller-than-you'd-think-cos-I-usually-wear-heels frame is a whole chunk of lard.<br />
<br />
Plus, if people are coming to you and paying you to help them get fit, you ought to make an effort to look the part. Not drinking Belgium's stock of rosé over the Easter break may have helped with this extra tonnage. Also not filling my Dad's fridge with more filet Américain (it's raw beef - I don't know why it's called filet Américain. I don't think you can get it in America. It's similar to steak tartare, though) than a woman should be allowed to eat in a month, and then accidentally having a forkful every time I filled the bottomless glass of rosé from the box in the fridge may have made some contribution, too.<br />
<br />
However, whatever the reason, I got back from my long weekend feeling like a proper little Bunter, and resolved to Do Something About It. Usually, it's a quick gain/quick loss, and I'm happy to let the extra half stone trickle off over the ensuing two weeks. I don't know why this wasn't the case this time. I'm getting old. It's harder to shift extra pounds and I just wanted it off quickly, so I thought I'd give this running malarkey a bash.<br />
<br />
Anyone who has ever discussed running with me will know my views on it.<br />
<br />
In brief, most people who start running do so with no idea what they're doing. They just grab a pair of trainers and hit the tarmac. The trainers are probably also well past their run-by date. <br />
<br />
Everyone thinks they can run. Our bodies are designed to do it, right? I mean, it's just running, right? Wrong. More people injure themselves running than almost any other sport, because they just go and do it. They also stretch before they've warmed up, causing little tiny tears in cold, stiff muscles, and don't stretch afterwards. And they whack all their impact through their heels, because their trainers allow them to do that, whereas our bodies are not actually designed to run like this. <br />
<br />
Look, if you're hating me right now, don't. If you know what you're doing and you enjoy it, keep at it. I raise my hat at you. If you're following a sensible programme, wearing good trainers and non-chaffing trousers, like a bit of barefoot running technique and have a sports bra which stops you from taking your own eye out crossing roads - go for it. Plus, you know, swings and roundabouts, horses for courses, freedom of etceteras.<br />
<br />
Yeah, I don't know what possessed me to give it a go, either. But yesterday morning, off I set, with Sev in tow, for a gentle jog. I figured I'd manage about three minutes and collapse in a heap, like I always did at school but I had forgotten that a) I smoked about 40 a day at school and b) my cardio-vascular fitness is a lot better than when I was a teenager, thanks to four years of teaching Zumba. Although you'd think five-times-a-week ballet as a teenager would have helped, but it seems that was more endurance than... anyway - I digress.<br />
<br />
To my somewhat smug pleasure, I managed four miles without pause, and, while sweaty at the end of it, wasn't unduly out of breath. I wasn't very fast, but then that wasn't my aim. And to my surprise, I quite enjoyed it - I certainly got a massive sense of achievement out of it. I could have gone further, but I'd done a 'there and back' type walk, and run out of route.<br />
<br />
This morning, I set out to jog again. I managed half the distance of yesterday and pulled up with a small nagging ache in my sacroiliac area, which I suspect may be called something like Jogger's Arse.<br />
<br />
I'd probably run though this if I didn't fear that I'd make it worse and put myself out of teaching altogether, for the foreseeable future, and we'd all die in penury on the streets. I don't know if running through it would make it worse or better, and I will never know because that's IT! I'm not running any more. I was right. It's not for me.<br />
<br />
And it turns out I'm exactly the kind of git I always swore I wouldn't be. TOTALLY inexperienced, hitting the tarmac, injured within 24 hours.<br />
<br />
Twat.Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-12836662662258185982014-04-03T04:40:00.001-07:002014-04-03T04:40:14.149-07:00SMOG PANIC & la poussière du SaharaI'm thoroughly enjoying all the panic about the smog, I must admit. <br /><br />Such fun to peel back the layers of the hysterical reporting and find admissions in the small print that it's actually 'smog-like', not smog. Hm, yes - they admit, eventually - it is more of a natural weather phenomenon than the actual pollution, per se, as which they are billing it. If I were it, I'd sue for misrepresentation. And libel.<br />
<br />
And isn't it helpful of them to warn us that breathing in dust particles may cause harm to people with respiratory difficulties, too - we'd <i>never</i> have worked that one out.<br />
<br />
AND (second paragraph starting with and - if it was good enough for Steinbeck...) I love the fact that they all report it as if it's some strange new phenomenon. <br />
<br />
The whole thing is utterly fabulous and an example of the journalists of this fine nation in their usual fine fettle, frothing at the mouth and whipping the general public into a frenzy of fear. Dust off your old bird 'flu masks, ladies and gents - your lives could depend on it. Or not.<br />
<br />
When I was growing up in Belgium, we gleefully awaited the arrival of "la poussière du Sahara" - the brick red dust which would coat everyone's cars to some degree or another more years than not. <br /><br />We were all somewhat awe-struck by this exotic, magical desert sand which was transported hundreds of miles across sea and land, high high high in the sky, and deposited, as light as feathers, on cars, windows, streets - anything which stayed still for long enough. In years when it didn't happen, we'd feel as swizzed as the years when it didn't snow at Christmas. <br /><br />And yet (third time) here we all are, on the other side of a channel narrow enough to actually swim (although not for me - I'm more of a floating around on a lilo kind of bird), having a total panic attack about the whole wonderful thing. Which, although rare in this country, <i>has</i> happened here before, on numerous occasions. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, "Slightly Unusual But Entirely Explicable Weather Situation" doesn't make a great headline.<br />
<br />
Here's what happens next.<br />
<br />
When it rains, the raindrops will gather up the sand and dust on their way to the earth, and the dust will no longer be hanging around, ruining the atmosphere, like a drunken uncle at a wedding. Well, I hear drunken uncles at weddings are unpopular - personally, they're usually my favourite guests.<br />
<br />
The papers will then herald the overnight disappearance of the terrifying return-to-the-pea-soupers-of-yesteryear smog as Most Mysterious. Sigh. <br />
<br />
Meanwhile, whatever shall we do? If only we lived in a country where it rains occasionally! If only this were famously the most showery month of the whole year on our temperate, sceptred isle! Oh... hang on...<br /><br />xxxMazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-65633783289093081412014-01-09T07:13:00.000-08:002014-01-09T07:13:06.578-08:002014, eh?! Kuh! Who'd-a thought...New Year, New You! Resolutions! Bigger (or smaller)! Better! Shinier! Happier! Healthier! Wealthier! BETTTTTTERRRRR!!!<br />
<br />
Ah, bollocks, to it. <br />
<br />
I'm a big believer in drawing a line under behaviour which you want to change, and I can see that the closing of a year is a good time to do so, but it's also entirely arbitrary. Most of us are skint and knackered from Christmas, and from spending too many of our waking hours in the dark, instead of hibernating like pigs. I mean, cows. I mean BEARS! Sheesh! <br />
<br />
We've barely drawn breath (and should still, if we listened to our bodies, be spending about 16 hours a day in our caves) and we start telling ourselves we have to stop eating or drinking this or that, start cleaning or tidying the other (not THE other - hopefully that's ... okay, I'm walking away from this bracket before it gets filthy), kick highly addictive bad habits, make new healthy habits - you get the idea. <br />
<br />
If you have a New Year's Resolution, I salute you. I applaud you. And I wish you well in keeping it. Genuinely - that's not some kind of sarky "oh yeah, like, good luck, loser!" kind of wish. I really do wish you well.<br />
<br />
If, however, you fall at the third or fourth hurdle (look, even I am trusting you to get beyond the first couple, okay?), don't beat yourself up. Don't give up doing what you started doing. Or start doing what you gave up doing. Just acknowledge that it's a hard time of year to make changes.<br />
<br />
Energy levels are depleted. Stores of Vitamin D are low (on which subject, I beg of you that if we ever get any sunshine this year, you allow yourselves and your loved ones at least half an hour a day of sun on your skin with no sunscreen. Please. Just for me. Call it a resolution - one which is easy to keep). Those of us who enjoy the odd drinkie to get us through the evening are probably a little more reliant on it than usual, having got our bodies WELL used to it over the festive season. We've stretched our stomachs so they think they need more food. We've eaten more sweet things than we usually would, and now our insatiable bods are craving sugar. We've lounged around watching telly and allowing our brains to turn to mush when we'd normally be getting up and getting dressed and getting the kids to school and getting to work and tidying the house and doing the admin and going to exercise classes and being a taxi service and eating a healthy amount of healthy food and ALL THE OTHER MILLIONS of day to day tasks.<br />
<br />
My resolution - such as it is, and it's not a real one, because I don't make them - is to get up and get dressed and get the kids to school and do some work and tidy the house and do the admin and go to exercise classes and be a taxi service and eat a healthy amount of healthy food throughout January as effectively as I did in December. Which is not always very. But it's MORE effective than it has been for the last three weeks. Once I've got back into the swing of things, which won't take long, I'll rejoice in making a lot of other small changes. But meanwhile, I'm not going to doom myself to failure by making a load of unrealistic resolutions which just end up making me feel bad about myself.<br />
<br />
So there.<br />
<br />
I will also find time to make a list of things which I really, genuinely would like to improve about myself, my environment and my behaviour. Believe me, it will be a long list. I will then figure out how to make this happen. And then, and only then, I will figure out when the time is right my frame of mind is good enough to tackle these things.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow - who the fuck knows?<br />
<br />
Happy New Year, my friends.Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-28814631498427087282013-05-20T03:08:00.000-07:002013-05-20T03:08:15.797-07:00Teeny Dandelion Wine Update - And Chickens.The dandelion petals are doing their thing - whatever their thing is. They've had their first stir of the day.<br />
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They look like this: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ZGJbRVc9hiJiq5wHQgaDM6huPKAr0VoOkOijBspv0cU-qdxyhRKuxiDeDRpp7QAEmDaocLYr6amewMTLjFoKEHIHv4E2XPfY2m6FjfHH7cNQ9FAqskpnQX6TBYE6e0B8I_izPvtV0RM/s1600/IMG_3101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ZGJbRVc9hiJiq5wHQgaDM6huPKAr0VoOkOijBspv0cU-qdxyhRKuxiDeDRpp7QAEmDaocLYr6amewMTLjFoKEHIHv4E2XPfY2m6FjfHH7cNQ9FAqskpnQX6TBYE6e0B8I_izPvtV0RM/s640/IMG_3101.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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And they smell... hmm... Planty. I wouldn't go so far as to say floral, really, but I'm surprised they don't smell sludgy and haven't gone all brown. Very pretty, really! Bodes well for the vino. Hopefully.<br />
<br />
So now I'm jumping up every five minutes to see if that's the postie with the yeast and yeastnutrientwhateverthehellthatis, because the instructions say you're not to leave it an INStant longer than two days, so I am going to be needing that yeast by lunchtime tomorrow! <br />
<br />
Meanwhile, as my previous chickeny post was actually typed at Christmas, I realise I never told y'all they're laying. Well, Captain Morghen lays a reliable egg each and every day. <br />
<br />
I know it's her, because she has had white legs since eggs started appearing, and this is a Sign, as we chicken wranglers knows.<br />
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The chicken on the right is laying. The chicken on the left is a lazy bastard.</div>
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Also, the other two are plump and sleek, while the poor ol' Captain looks knackered, because she's ploughing all her energy into egg production. <br />
<br />
For a couple of heady weeks, we were getting up to four eggs a day, but then, it seems, the other three lost interest and realised they'd get fed, anyway. Lazy buggers. Then my favourite, Bob Mar-lay, who had been watching Tom Daley's "Splash" through the kitchen window with an unnatural degree of interest in her beady little eyes, took it upon herself to attempt a triple pike into the bottom pond. <br />
<br />
I found her, some time later, disconsolately perched on a rock with her wings spread out, half in and half out of the water. A good towelling off and a nice cosy improvised bed in the warm greenhouse seemed to sort her out. However, this may have lowered her resistance to an itinerant bout of avian flu, because a week later, she bought the farm. <br />
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RIP Bob</div>
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Another one bites the dust. She's buried next to Brian, but with a lot less ceremony. It seems the children are getting used to the idea that chickens die. <br />
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So now we're down to three little birds (there's a song in there, somewhere), and one egg a day. Although Mr P almost mowed over a random egg in the lawn yesterday, so it's entirely possible that the others ARE laying (I shall be scrutinising the colour of their legs, later) but are less well behaved than the Captain, and are laying their eggs wherever they darned well please. Tut! How do you train a chicken, anyway?<br />
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Three little birds, sat by my doorstep</div>
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<br />Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-88747195515537414112013-05-19T08:00:00.001-07:002013-05-19T08:00:36.965-07:00The Underratedness of ContentmentI have been thinking about contentment a fair bit, of late. You don't read about it a lot. People seldom answer "Oh, you know - content", when you ask how they are. And it's generally not wildly fashionable.<br />
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But I like it.<br />
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I do.<br />
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I think it's the best thing to be.<br />
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Jumping for joy is pretty cool, and the odd bit of misery is helpful in the perspective stakes, but, on the whole, being content the whole damned time would be a jolly good place to be.<br />
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So why don't we hear about it more?<br />
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It's hard to write about being content without coming coming across downright smug. That's why. But I'm going to have a bloody good go at it.<br />
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*takes deep breath*<br />
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I'm lucky. My job makes me jump for joy, it really does. Actually, jumping for joy pretty much IS my job - that's what teaching Zumba is all about, for me, and watching new people come into class for the first time, all nervous and psyching themselves up, then seeing them realise that I'm not going to half kill them, humiliate them, accidentally make them feel small and unfit and generally unworthy, and then watch them start to relax, then maybe smile a little, then begin to grin and, as the class goes on and then the weeks go on, start to bust some &*^$ing moves. Ahh - that makes me jump for joy at the time, and helps with the contentment in between.<br />
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Also, I love to cook. As you may have spotted. I really enjoy it. It's a mental challenge, thinking up new stuff to do and making it work. It's also of endless interest to me. I will never, if I cook a different dish every single meal for the rest of my life, have cooked every single dish it is possible to cook. Oooh hang on - I need to sit down - that's really freaked me out! I'm going to die without having tasted things - yoinks! Ohhh-kay. Starting to be able to cope with that idea.<br />
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The flip side of cooking, of course, is cooking for kids. Mine are pretty good. They like snails, squid, good hot curries, octopus, blue steak, scallops - the little sods, of course, have no business even knowing what half of this stuff tastes like. Meanwhile, they think mashed potato and baked beans are the devil's work, and seem to have divided up most of the remaining easily available foods between them so that what one likes, the other abhors. Which makes it fucking difficult to come up with interesting, nutritional and varied meals for the pair of them on a daily basis. Thankfully M is no longer allergic to tomatoes, but the years of no spag bol, Heinz spaghetti shapes or Queen Of Tomato soup were a challenge. School roasts lunches, twice a week, used to be a nice easy one, until O announced that she no longer liked school roast beef. I shone an anglepoise lamp in her face, got my jackboots on, and asked her why the .... heck not. "Because it's brown". I can't argue with that. Overcooked beef is a crime.<br />
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So while cooking, generally, has always made me very happy - shall we go the whole hog and admit contentment? Yes, let's - cooking for the ungrateful makes me angry, stroppy, very unhappy and, on occasion, positively bitchy, darling.<br />
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Gardening is a joy beyond belief. Gardening while listening to Radio 4 is sheer unadulterated contentment. For a middle-aged bint such as myself. Gardening while listening to Zumba music is even better, but can be dangerous. Well, YOU try droppin' it to da floor with a swoe in your hand and see what happens.<br />
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Going out to water the greenhouse and finding that some dark and eldritch creature has crept in through the door (left open by ungrateful beast children (I jest. I adore them. When they are eating up my food and not leaving the door to the fucking greenhouse open all night)) and dug up m'flipping runners during the night is soul destroying.<br />
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Listen, in case you think I'm having it easy, here - many far far worse things have happened to me in my life, and will continue to happen to me in my life, I have no doubt. But we're talking about contentment here, so we'll take it with a pinch of salt and let my private life, or at least some small parts of it, remain my own.<br />
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There are many many other things which make me content. Seeing my children succeed at stuff. Seeing them try. Having the time to make more or less any damned thing. Sitting here, right now, in the sun, when the forecast said it would rain, on the purple table and chairs by the pond, wearing my big straw hat so I can see my screen, watching the fish sunbathe, the waterboatmen dive, the pond skaters mate, and the great crested newts bask, while I type up this nonsensical stream of consciousness - that's feeling pretty good.<br />
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Last week was a horrible time, and I don't want to go back there. Luckily I can't, unless someone's been and gone and invented time travel while I've been watching the test match. Next week will be fabulous, I have no doubt. Or at least, it will be a cause for contentment.<br />
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I'm going to leave you with a stroll around my garden, and a series of things, in no particular order, which made me content just now.<br />
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The sound of massed mowers. I love listening to Men At Work.</div>
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Things coming up in my rainy-day-office - AKA the greenhouse, which is calling out for care and attention, which is why I won't mind when it rains next week, apparently...</div>
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Flowers and plants and weeds and sunlight</div>
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Daisies. So called because they are Day's Eyes. Why do people get upset at having </div>
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daisies in their lawns? Are there not other things to get upset about?</div>
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A happy frog, basking in the sunlight, who let me get close enough to take this ponto </div>
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(ponto?! Photo) with my phone.</div>
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Freshly weeded stream.</div>
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Trip trap, trip trap, over the rickety bridge. This is LETHAL and needs repairing, but the kids love to remove the slats and lie on their tummies watching the newts in the patch of slow water beneath, so I can't quite bring myself to nail the bastard back down again. You have my full permission to laugh and point when I break my ankle running up there in the dark to lock the chickens in one night.</div>
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Primroses. Always a delight, but now also food - yay!</div>
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Ground Elder. Formerly a horrible, rampant, strangling weed. Now reclassified as a crop - yay!</div>
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Swing, for sitting in, reading, listening to the pond gurgle. </div>
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One day I will have time to actually do this (yes, I split an infinitive - hah! Bite me!) but</div>
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meanwhile, just thinking about it is contentment enough.</div>
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Kids bouncing on the trampoline, with the incinerator in the foreground, </div>
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holding all its promise of tidying the garden and BURNING STUFF in it, while</div>
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toasting marshmallows over its eyebrow-singeingly hot flames.</div>
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So that's me, just at this minute, content.</div>
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See, it's bloody irritatingly smug, isn't it?! Even while trying hard not to be. So if it's any consolation, and if it increases your own feelings of contentment at all, this is how I envisage the rest of the day.</div>
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Someone will ask me what's for dinner. I will begin to panic, because I haven't thought this one through, and although I want grilled aubergines, that will go down like a cup of cold sick. I will then turn unreasonably snappy and take to the bottle. (Simon has just walked down the gorgeous garden with a dead rat on a shovel, by the way, just to prove my point, and I've had to bag it up for the bin - eeeeeek). There will then be a panicked rummaging through the fridge for - ooh, just remembered, we have three chicken breasts, which, if I slice 'em up and coat 'em in cornflakes, should feed three - better still, I'll get Olivia to do it. That will all take longer than planned so the promised watching of last night's recorded Britain's Got Talent will go on way too late, at which point everyone will remember that their school uniforms and PE kits are still filthy from last week, and will need to be hunted out and washed. Everyone will get increasingly bad tempered about all of this, then lunchboxes will be remembered and will be found to contain things mouldering from last week, and smelling, curiously, of old bananas, despite the fact that they are strangers to bananas old and new. We will then realise that school lunch tomorrow is "disgusting" to at least one child, but will have insufficient supplies in for decent packed lunches which won't be sneered at by other children with more organised mothers. I will then remember that it's bath night and all the towels are in the wash. Eventually, fed, clean and with uniform in the wash, the children will be put to bed at a reasonable but slightly later than planned time (and I'm a bedtime fascist, so "a bit late" is probably still quite early by most standards). Mr P and I will then collapse on the sofa and watch last week's Dallas or something equally unchallenging with a bottle of red, and crawl upstairs to bed, whereupon we will be confronted with the fact that we thought, when we awoke this morning, that changing the bedclothes was a bloody good idea, but we only got so far as stripping the bed and never actually got the fresh sheets on. Downstairs, airing cupboard, swearing, fight about whose method of putting duvet cover on is most effective, and, ultimately, collapse, horizontal, on the world's most comfortable bed. Which I've just remembered, I noticed this morning when we stripped it, appears to have sprung a leak.</div>
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Bollocks.</div>
<br />Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-70734224354278396262013-05-19T06:33:00.002-07:002013-05-19T08:21:48.137-07:00The Joy of PecksDreadful pun, my loves, I know. But I never could resist a pun, bad or good. My father-in-law was known as Squadron Leader Punnington, when he was in the RAF, and it seems we share a glee in the old jeux de mots.<br />
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So, here I am, laid up in a hospital bed with nothing to do, BUT! With access to the internet. About time I blogged, methinks. And what, sez you, are you blogging about, today? (fast-forward to when I am ACTUALLY posting this - I am NOT laid up in a hospital bed - I wrote this at Christmas!)<br />
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Well, it's got to be the chickens.<br />
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Rewinding several years, I have been talking about getting chickens for quite some time. I've talked myself into it and out of it on numerous occasions. So much so that I had got a little dizzy and wondered whether to shelve the whole idea. With last spring having been so ghastly, however, and the veg patch hence having got itself into such a naughty MESS with that bastard Bindweed swarming up everything in sight and strangling the living daylights out of it, I had mentioned to my good friend S that I'd done a bit of research and wondered whether letting some chickens loose in the veg patch through the winter might result in the ground up there being pecked and scratched bare, naturally fertilised, and ending up ready for me to swan in in spring 2013 and plant the bugger up without having to have put in much effort at all. THAT is a very long, nay epic, sentence.<br />
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Anyway, S thought this a good plan, so when she heard that some chickens were available and looking for a new home, she gave me a ring. Well, I could have dithered forever, of course, but being presented with a fait accompli moved things along considerably. <br />
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The hunt for a henhouse began. These seem to range from costing 99p off eBay for something which you go and collect from where it's been standing for the last millennium, and good luck if it falls apart, to almost £5k for a henhouse shaped and painted up like a gypsy caravan, if you please. Very pretty, but you'd have to sew up their bums so they didn't poo in it, at that price, so not terribly practical.<br />
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S to the rescue again! We bartered a copy of my book for a henhouse, which then appeared fully built and ready to go. Gawd bless yer, yer ladyship! We were in business!<br />
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At this point, what I should have done was spend a couple of hours attaching the roofing felt to the roof and making the henhouse generally weatherproof. I realise that now. I have been a very silly boy.<br />
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Instead, I rang the lady who needed the chickens rehoming, and we went to get them pretty much on the spot. Excitement is a wonderful thing, but a bit of tempering goes a long way.<br />
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We - four adults and four (five?) children, then spent the best part of an hour chicken-chasing! What fun - in and out of holly bushes, under sheds, around all sorts of assorted obstacles the clever chickens led us. We got two safely stowed in the cat basket, only to fail to secure the door sufficiently, so they escaped and needed recapturing. After much hilarity (and a discovery of an irritating diffidence in myself when it came to actually pouncing on the little devils) we eventually had four hens and a magnificent cockerel under lock and key and ready to move into their new home.<br />
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Now, a word about our magnificent cockered. Magnificent is too small a word, really. Look:<br />
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I know, right? You want to see more, don't you. Here you go:</div>
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Who's a pretty boy, then?</div>
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People keep asking me whether I realise that a cockerel is not strictly necessary - or indeed at all necessary - for egg production. Yes, I know this. The absence of cockerels and the presence of eggs at virtually all the houses of my chicken-owning chums has alerted me to this fact. However, four hens and a cockerel were looking for a home, and we felt it would have been churlish in the extreme to have accepted the hens, while leaving the cockerel to his fate. Not on my watch. So four hens and a cockerel we accepted. We were a little concerned when people told us that cockerels can be aggressive, attacking small animals and children, and not too keen on the whole crack-of-dawn-crowing aspect of the thing, but on the whole, we felt it was worth a go. And we were assured that "Lucky" would not behave badly or wake everyone up.</div>
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Then we saw him, and it was, for me, love at first sight. If anyone had tried to take him away, I would have done battle. Just gloriously, hugely, cockerelly GORGEOUS from head to strutting toe.</div>
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I have to tell you at this point (and this is a bit of a spoiler, so if you don't want to know, look away), Lucky has since strutted off to the great hen coop in the sky. </div>
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I just wanted to get that out of the way before you invested as much emotion in him as I did. </div>
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However, for the time being, in blogland, he is safe and well.</div>
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We decided that Lucky was not the right name for him. Insufficiently dignified, we felt. So why we settled on Brian, I'm not sure - but the name fit and stuck. Brian, he was.</div>
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Back at the house, we introduced the chickens to the henhouse, where, my dear friend R had told me, they must remain locked up for 24 hours and not a minute less, to allow them to "imprint" their new home on their tiny, mad, chicken brains. This we duly did. It was at the point when the chickens were safely (h)ensconced (sorry) in their lil' coop, however, that I registered that I hadn't yet felted their roof. Damn, bugger and hell. Feeling that hammering endlessly and repeatedly on their roof on their first day might not help them settle in, and might indeed push them right over the edge, we hauled out the store of old growbags and plastic compost sacks and arranged them in a hideous, but relatively rainproof, layer on top of the house.</div>
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24 hours later, it was with some trepidation that we released the birdies into the veg patch, but there was no cause for concern. They emerged happily from their little doorway, and attacked my cabbages with relish.</div>
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Look at Brian - his head's a blur. He LOVES it!</div>
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The chickens all settled in very well, and entertained me endlessly with their sometimes curious, sometimes contented and sometimes mysterious bwooooaarking. Getting them up in the morning is a pure joy, and they put themselves to bed at night, so we just slip up at dusk and lock them safely in. I have had to force myself not to spend hours sitting in the garden with them pecking around my feet while I draw them, but I foresee some happy summer days coming up in 2013, doing just that.</div>
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For ten days, all continued in this fine and happy fashion. Brian and the girls (who gradually got names - in order of naming: Elvis Egg-Pelvis, Alex Eggslaid-Chamberhen, Bob Mar-lay and finally Captain Morghen) strutted, trotted and bwoarked their way freely around the garden during the day, and snuggled up cosily in their (almost weatherproof) henhouse at night. No eggs appeared, but I wasn't worried. Their winter job is to clear the veg patch, and I expected no eggs, due to them being of indeterminate age, having just been moved, AND the time of year. Elvis is always first out in the morning, Brian always last, liking to have a bit of a peer out through the door for a couple of minutes to ensure that the world is just as it should be, before emerging, triumphant, into the morning sun.</div>
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Then, one sunny Thursday afternoon, having had to release, feed and run in the morning and having hence not had time to admire Brian's slow emergence, I went to see the chickens and could find no sign of Brian. Investigation (involving me crawling on hands and knees into the tiny run in front of the doorway) revealed him lying down, cold as stone, inside the henhouse. Brian, it seemed, was no more. </div>
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With a heavy heart, I pulled him out of the house via the roosting box, and gave him a hug. It seemed that his feet twitched, so I tried to warm him up in case this was a sign of life, but half an hour produced no further movement, so Brian was wrapped in a towel and confined to a box while we prepared to tell the children on their return from school. At this point, I realised that Brian actually appeared to have a couple of mites on him, which may actually now be on me, so I hightailed it upstairs for a very sad hot bath and to wash my hair in vinegar, sobbing noisily at the loss of this magnificent bird.</div>
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The children were informed. A funeral was duly planned, by them - complete with order of service and invitations. It was a funeral as dignified and ceremonious as befitted such a wonderful creature. I have been hunting through my photos for the snap I was sure I took of Brian's order of service, but I can't find it. Suffice it to say - and I report this with no small amount of pride - that the final item in the order of service was, in the handwriting of my cheeky little bugger of an 8-year-old-daughter - "We go to the pub and get drunk". When questioned, the pair of them informed us: "It's what he would have wanted".</div>
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Anyone got the number for Social Services...?</div>
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<br />Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-50607323583763360522013-05-19T05:06:00.001-07:002013-05-20T03:13:47.729-07:00Dandelion WineAnother big gap with no blog. I have resolved to Be A Better Blogger, and try and get something down at least once a month, even if it's rubbish.<br />
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What's been going on here? Lots. Hence the non-blogging.<br />
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Can't even begin to remember what it's all been, so we'll just carry on from here, eh?!<br />
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Currently, beech leaves are steeping for gin:<br />
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If you want to know how to do this, see here: http://mazsplace.blogspot.co.uk/2012_08_01_archive.html<br />
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I'd like to report that beech leaf gin is FANTASTIC. I think it's the best booze I've ever made, which is why I'm making it again this year. These leaves look a little more bruised than last year's example. This is because I foolishly thought I had a load of cheap gin in the cupboard to pour straight on the leaves. It turned out to be vodka. So I had to whizz out and do a curséd weekly shop and stock up on cheap gin (they must think I'm such a dipso - oh! I am.). By the time I'd finished wading through the tedium of cat litter, cornflakes and loo cleaner (ooh, cheap coke is BRILLIANT for cleaning loos as a good friend informed me recently), the leaves had oxidised a bit. <br />
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I'm guessing it's going to turn out just fine, though. It smells good already.<br />
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Bread is currently baking for lunch:<br />
http://mazsplace.blogspot.co.uk/2012_10_01_archive.html<br />
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And tomatoes are roasting - also for lunch:<br />
http://mazsplace.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/gluts-and-what-to-do-with-them.html<br />
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So while I've got half an hour - blog time!<br />
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This week, having noticed what a fabulous month this is proving to be for dandelions, and following an interesting chat in the pub with a drunken mentalist in a great leather hat, I have decided to make dandelion wine. SO satisfying when a plant which is rampant in your garden goes from being a weed to a crop, and you can suddenly refer to weeding as 'harvesting'. So oi been a-harvestin' me dandeloyns, me loves.<br />
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I'm not sure whether to be pleased or miffed that the entire front and back gardens, including the veg patch, which appeared to be solid gold when the dandelions were still a weed, looked a lot greener, suddenly, when they had become a crop and didn't yield the gallon of petals required by the recipe. I sheepishly knocked next door and asked if I could possibly 'harvest' their dandelions, too - thank you, my lovely neighbours. </div>
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Although their garden is far better kept than ours, it all adds to the total! </div>
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I also then managed to find a recipe which called for three quarts rather than a gallon of petals. Once I'd consulted Mr P to find out what the holy hell a quart is, and found an online converter, I was good to go.</div>
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I'm going to have to wait a year to find out whether this stuff is any good, and there's going to be demijohns and bubble traps involved, possibly even rubber tubing (lawks!) - all kindsa malarkey. But my paternal grandmother used to make all manner of country wines, so I figure it's probably in the blood, and worth a go.</div>
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I'm going to copy out the recipe I'm loosely using, and put it here, because then I know I can't lose it. Clever, eh!? But bear in mind, it's completely untested (by me, at any rate), I will probably mess about with it no-end, and I can't vouch for it in any way.</div>
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<i>3 qts dandelion flowers</i><br />
<i>1 lb white raisins</i><br />
<i>1 gallon water</i><br />
<i>3 lbs granulated sugar</i><br />
<i>2 lemons</i><br />
<i>1 orange</i><br />
<i>yeast and nutrient</i><br />
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<i>Pick the flowers just before starting, so they're fresh. You do not need to pick the petals off the flower heads, but the heads should be trimmed of any stalk. Put the flowers in a large bowl. Set aside 1 pint of water and bring the remainder to a boil. Pour the boiling water over the dandelion flowers and cover tightly with cloth or plastic wrap. Leave for two days, stirring twice daily. Do not exceed this time. Pour flowers and water in large pot and bring to a low boil. Add the sugar and the peels (peel thinly and avoid any of the white pith) of the lemons and orange. Boil for one hour, then pour into a crock or plastic pail. Add the juice and pulp of the lemons and orange. Allow to stand until cool (70-75 degrees F.). Add yeast and yeast nutrient, cover, and put in a warm place for three days. Strain and pour into a secondary fermentation vessel (bottle or jug). Add the raisins and fit a fermentation trap to the vessel. Leave until fermentation ceases completely, then rack and add the reserved pint of water and whatever else is required to top up. Refit the airlock and set aside until clear. Rack and bottle. This wine must age six months in the bottle before tasting, but will improve remarkably if allowed a year. [Adapted recipe from C.J.J. Berry's First Steps in Winemaking]</i><br />
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This recipe is exactly as it appears where I found it. Personally, I think it's a bit odd to tell you to measure out a gallon of water and put a pint aside for what will amount to several months, but then this winemaking stuff is new to me. As are gallons and quarts. If I could be arsed, I would go and work out what a gallon is and work out what it was minus a pint, but I can't. Oh, hang on, I'll ask my Imperial guru! He says that would be seven pints. So why not tell people to use 7 pints, then add a pint right at the end ... oh, anyway! Mine is not to reason why, mine is just to make some wine.<br />
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So the dandelions are in a big pan, where they will be stirred twice a day for the next two days, by which time Amazon, curse their non-tax-paying convenience, will no doubt have delivered my yeast and yeast nutrient. Whatever that is. It's all very exciting.<br />
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I fear the machine that goes 'ping', aka the oven timer, is about to tell me that the bread is done, so I'm going to post this before I change my mind.<br />
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More nonsense will follow soon - I promise.<br />
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<br />Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-57419347156382347512013-01-26T01:27:00.000-08:002013-01-26T01:31:57.859-08:00'Twas The Morning After The Night Before<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I woke up this morning thinking ‘ooh, ouch
my head’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Whilst I rolled myself gingerly out of my
bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It wasn’t so bad that I wished I were dead<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But I looked at the whites of my eyes –
they were red.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I stumbled about thinking how did this
happen<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But soon I remembered:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘twas the wee Bunnahabhain<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I knew there was something - my feet, they
were itching<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The urge was so strong to get down to the
kitchen<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I opened the oven and all became clear<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Twas the lure of cold haggis that was
lurking in there<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A spoonful of tatties, a mouthful of neeps<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The state of my being improving by leaps<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A thimble of coffee, a bucket of milk<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Slip down my throat just as smoothly as
silk<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A mountain of toast, Marmite, jam, peanut
butter<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The pleasure of it is complete – it is
utter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Tearing myself from my plate and my knife<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I tidy my place (cos I’m such a good wife)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s back up to bed with me – hmm well, for
now<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I’ll get up again later, if I work out how.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The breakfast I’ve planned, for me and the
nipper,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Is quite the grand feast – poached eggs and
a kipper.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">How I will eat it I really don’t know<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It will be my third breakfast in a very
short row.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But eat it I must, every last bite<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It will help with the aftermath of a great
Burns Night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">One thing I have learnt very well down the
years,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">After nights on the whiskies, wines, ciders
and beers,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Of all of the meals, breakfasts, dinners
and lunches<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">There’s none so delightful as hangover
munchies<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-52576227710231124192012-11-20T08:35:00.000-08:002012-11-20T08:35:05.411-08:00Maz's One-Stop (non-stop) Christmas Shop part 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
More & more, goodies galore.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Grab a bottle of your favourite beverage, wriggle your tootsies into a nice pair of slippers, and sit back and shop until you drop!</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Wishes in bottles</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrIEnWJAhbDEMKn7d2H6L8BArohEl2LtmujZc0DRIohP5lG_zYzTpiactvsDrqrDR8rZI6OS0XHopiXziPtkydOjkKaxvw7ouhWA_4_GcCp_SsRpVIXp-Ap35aItAsTjBM9y_Y2CTPVfU/s1600/IMG_2154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrIEnWJAhbDEMKn7d2H6L8BArohEl2LtmujZc0DRIohP5lG_zYzTpiactvsDrqrDR8rZI6OS0XHopiXziPtkydOjkKaxvw7ouhWA_4_GcCp_SsRpVIXp-Ap35aItAsTjBM9y_Y2CTPVfU/s320/IMG_2154.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="240" /></a></div>
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Tiny glass bottles with dandelion seeds inside, on waxed linen cord</div>
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Heart or Star: £14.95</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOtDIEDB33MZ7QH3zjln1zi2wbuLz17jy_H__4TS9Q1TAd8UV91H3uGc80Z2IFGuHBUVCTQKWMrUpzeUt-PXH0R2Q64lHNopW-3komxiks4SacT078-bMbXOBIy1xMn8r9ppdZCBk3IZY/s1600/IMG_2130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOtDIEDB33MZ7QH3zjln1zi2wbuLz17jy_H__4TS9Q1TAd8UV91H3uGc80Z2IFGuHBUVCTQKWMrUpzeUt-PXH0R2Q64lHNopW-3komxiks4SacT078-bMbXOBIy1xMn8r9ppdZCBk3IZY/s320/IMG_2130.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div>
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As above, on silver chain</div>
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Heart, Wishbone or Angel's Wing: £17.95</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">GlobeTrotter Necklaces</span></div>
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When your feet are itching, carry a bit of secret holiday around your neck...</div>
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Spinning globe, star and rocailles wand: £14.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW7Pd5gxBW65pR4iTc-TCWLsL2OdKM6YZkjx24fft0UMoe6AVlvw6xZLVQnMG9hHDH-da758KVj-cCUyNtchpB0teqN4ZrD7lrl0bXo8IkToBjjWAjIHHdAc7vXQY8NdjxQ1TTG5k0Cjk/s1600/IMG_2126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW7Pd5gxBW65pR4iTc-TCWLsL2OdKM6YZkjx24fft0UMoe6AVlvw6xZLVQnMG9hHDH-da758KVj-cCUyNtchpB0teqN4ZrD7lrl0bXo8IkToBjjWAjIHHdAc7vXQY8NdjxQ1TTG5k0Cjk/s320/IMG_2126.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="225" /></a></div>
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Cocktail, tropical leaf and passport with rocailles and hand-made glass beads </div>
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- bottoms up! £14.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibs1sa3OfZERtdW9iWVil__kVl_Pg1Ksf0VG4TmG0dC4YAbb_KILEBUKuzA2Z4Xf8Sn4XKVpye0VhE2pHjvs7QJAtmyY3r6sWg8Umd08hFhJSfISYVfCv2MBvdRj1Z95KJfG4SUazgPyA/s1600/IMG_2142.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibs1sa3OfZERtdW9iWVil__kVl_Pg1Ksf0VG4TmG0dC4YAbb_KILEBUKuzA2Z4Xf8Sn4XKVpye0VhE2pHjvs7QJAtmyY3r6sWg8Umd08hFhJSfISYVfCv2MBvdRj1Z95KJfG4SUazgPyA/s320/IMG_2142.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="148" /></a></div>
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Shades, flipflops and an ice-cream - everything you need for a day at the beach - </div>
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or just to dream about a day at the beach: £14.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4n9lBVqnlL0cDBOZZrL3vbklKnr2hx-e4bgzE3MOsyX1plm0qOSEP49pHhhnC1y-Hpxyfitp90EuTbNAwqv-9Mpgdxrxq-TD13wfqK6trsRxnraZ0uzjH8FtpCn6l7NzdvY5U26crkPg/s1600/IMG_2143.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4n9lBVqnlL0cDBOZZrL3vbklKnr2hx-e4bgzE3MOsyX1plm0qOSEP49pHhhnC1y-Hpxyfitp90EuTbNAwqv-9Mpgdxrxq-TD13wfqK6trsRxnraZ0uzjH8FtpCn6l7NzdvY5U26crkPg/s320/IMG_2143.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="185" /></a></div>
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Fly away, fly away - all you need is your passport and a pair of flipflops: £14.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFUcL5j9cIF8auOhj2_TbjLsFAmh9Unit-HJPOshkEHim6IobuEXf32NS8yIB8p3UjMuC3UsQFAK6Oh2YQv4Z7V79AWMwjT6mDISZC3RCBeEqq1CTAERDgrhIoetS-zKKHwM8XkgjXt94/s1600/IMG_2145.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFUcL5j9cIF8auOhj2_TbjLsFAmh9Unit-HJPOshkEHim6IobuEXf32NS8yIB8p3UjMuC3UsQFAK6Oh2YQv4Z7V79AWMwjT6mDISZC3RCBeEqq1CTAERDgrhIoetS-zKKHwM8XkgjXt94/s320/IMG_2145.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="219" /></a></div>
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I'm just imagining myself, right now, sitting under a palm tree, licking an ice-cream, </div>
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wearing my shades - sigh: £14.95</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Oh, I DO like to BE beside the SEAside....</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Xe2ofrCxRpI11unleGFlpJGdbEyM5Uwu1S3bLEBGWuaRTrJG0Nyjt2eNMPlM3nL6DVstyWO2Lt4XA46IjXN0nIZ30VPm93pEjIan-KTZGkqGM7wQlzM4rKgoyNmwWtyc0iBnOw5vDkk/s1600/IMG_2091.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Xe2ofrCxRpI11unleGFlpJGdbEyM5Uwu1S3bLEBGWuaRTrJG0Nyjt2eNMPlM3nL6DVstyWO2Lt4XA46IjXN0nIZ30VPm93pEjIan-KTZGkqGM7wQlzM4rKgoyNmwWtyc0iBnOw5vDkk/s320/IMG_2091.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="297" /></a></div>
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Fishies, sea-horses, matte blue handmade glass beads, Tibetan silver spacers on blue waxed linen cord. Gorgeous green mother of pearl button.</div>
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£7.95</div>
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Shell charm, handmade glass beads and natural mother of pearl button.</div>
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£7.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEjwlZt5Q0xqCqkyB8YZXROF12etm5bo7IU4tKeAUZVKN_tOJyNi_1XLiLAKshoSIWlWZz3YUf9-zOjFR0LMAKvUxO-BOIglRdsjbUbhBaTdma2uz6D39mSWpL2yVaBfWScgCrexVHido/s1600/IMG_2097.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEjwlZt5Q0xqCqkyB8YZXROF12etm5bo7IU4tKeAUZVKN_tOJyNi_1XLiLAKshoSIWlWZz3YUf9-zOjFR0LMAKvUxO-BOIglRdsjbUbhBaTdma2uz6D39mSWpL2yVaBfWScgCrexVHido/s320/IMG_2097.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="211" /></a></div>
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All the colours of the sea, and a lil' fishie, too.</div>
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£7.95</div>
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Once upon a time, a dolphin, a mermaid and a sea-horse got washed up on a Cornish shore. They flipped and swam their way safely to a lovely, deep rock-pool... and ended up in Maz's shop! £14.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9rTixenBds2JrMemAN6oIwm_YvTh_J86GE6lNfM2OnDKqyXyFBpZZRGwg5i546T8McLQYcPPef_bGs7Ff1D21Fe45f3-Cw9dmZkiQ3TmF_Ce5Wz3nUBR5rJRfuNsq2TqWfZ_WIkkT1zM/s1600/IMG_2149.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9rTixenBds2JrMemAN6oIwm_YvTh_J86GE6lNfM2OnDKqyXyFBpZZRGwg5i546T8McLQYcPPef_bGs7Ff1D21Fe45f3-Cw9dmZkiQ3TmF_Ce5Wz3nUBR5rJRfuNsq2TqWfZ_WIkkT1zM/s320/IMG_2149.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="144" /></a></div>
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And she loved them so much, she made another one (with more beads on!)</div>
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£14.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfL3HN3N10yxpEY6acOtmdqEoZnNumsOMHQAosvxQFknPaeYjQvSnuAKxVQFQF5mC18y0K-7eVHpzWi5-ArD9qrVhp_fVRwPpkRV0_8BO9x_PppvVOPd6mxXa210WCtYcvqYDIUWepm2Y/s1600/IMG_2136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfL3HN3N10yxpEY6acOtmdqEoZnNumsOMHQAosvxQFknPaeYjQvSnuAKxVQFQF5mC18y0K-7eVHpzWi5-ArD9qrVhp_fVRwPpkRV0_8BO9x_PppvVOPd6mxXa210WCtYcvqYDIUWepm2Y/s320/IMG_2136.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="121" /></a></div>
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A seagull, a rainbow and a beer. Hang on, no beer.</div>
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Great necklace, though! £12.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg282PV4idnxL66pIekQ8Uo_QzudyX1i_mr9QVQj_ozAtWVcWvERZmmyrdWgug4V3jLvJHhKAJDVJh6vc0v3Kah1ioSSRUPIKrgHqFkh3dPuLiJ1MGbQeB_9S3AFzJPH1e9R8x6U9zS8Xw/s1600/IMG_2153.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg282PV4idnxL66pIekQ8Uo_QzudyX1i_mr9QVQj_ozAtWVcWvERZmmyrdWgug4V3jLvJHhKAJDVJh6vc0v3Kah1ioSSRUPIKrgHqFkh3dPuLiJ1MGbQeB_9S3AFzJPH1e9R8x6U9zS8Xw/s320/IMG_2153.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="157" /></a></div>
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Tiny bottle - no message. Filled with minuscule iridescent turquoise hearts, bluer than the </div>
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Med on a sunny day. £16.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4pvk6L9AS8Obir57saWV9SrWTnwv5g0jNUjEwy6ROfHKKeyN4KZ3JR0xjqD7FRsXFntPx0p6aPAzURz-d6MfdonxXhWfJ-adxXpy2bKPoJIVdCkpS9Qi0ol3Qhh25vWeAFx4FlFrGXKs/s1600/IMG_2122.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4pvk6L9AS8Obir57saWV9SrWTnwv5g0jNUjEwy6ROfHKKeyN4KZ3JR0xjqD7FRsXFntPx0p6aPAzURz-d6MfdonxXhWfJ-adxXpy2bKPoJIVdCkpS9Qi0ol3Qhh25vWeAFx4FlFrGXKs/s320/IMG_2122.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="235" /></a></div>
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Catch of the day: £8.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7FayXNsc8v6bn5OfjdO2r_yY4kjDDHAULFYpWTobrHtshI5WoyTXVDlDucs_aPvf6S9KOjBALr-VBUd2rN9JG2aJTTL1MiYNvCcs0hGfVG_-kg9YR2GU37W58i_szS5DEOrxJrA1NW6A/s1600/IMG_2127.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7FayXNsc8v6bn5OfjdO2r_yY4kjDDHAULFYpWTobrHtshI5WoyTXVDlDucs_aPvf6S9KOjBALr-VBUd2rN9JG2aJTTL1MiYNvCcs0hGfVG_-kg9YR2GU37W58i_szS5DEOrxJrA1NW6A/s320/IMG_2127.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="186" /></a></div>
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More teeny weeny hearts, and a big silver one, too. £16.95</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Big Button Brooches!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7_RF7S2vRMNoXsPs7NRIJisM6qfTOEJ6pEV0nyFCvj1wNthFymOXJnbs61FPUUMEPaqFnhIqpPQVgUQlsVst-0lYN7lGGIyJG57iCs0MIqiaRs65hmaf-YNXfJ3KRqPVuyXTYOodCj8/s1600/IMG_2100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7_RF7S2vRMNoXsPs7NRIJisM6qfTOEJ6pEV0nyFCvj1wNthFymOXJnbs61FPUUMEPaqFnhIqpPQVgUQlsVst-0lYN7lGGIyJG57iCs0MIqiaRs65hmaf-YNXfJ3KRqPVuyXTYOodCj8/s320/IMG_2100.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
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These mother of pearl buttons (see 5p piece for scale) look rather</div>
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fabulous singly or grouped together on lapels. Dark green, light green, turquoise or pink thread.</div>
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£3.00 each</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpbIEJ70Pa8rTl5yaFCtaIHlslA895XqZ3xehgKIdWBPcIy9Fh6x_TZDddgslhWp-l36gkDkPHTaUGB3jfZ8KUF2wddD8NADD39haHfd-O9X88EEEy7lnziF1S-rEIbsc7nmZDLOhpsPo/s1600/IMG_2129.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpbIEJ70Pa8rTl5yaFCtaIHlslA895XqZ3xehgKIdWBPcIy9Fh6x_TZDddgslhWp-l36gkDkPHTaUGB3jfZ8KUF2wddD8NADD39haHfd-O9X88EEEy7lnziF1S-rEIbsc7nmZDLOhpsPo/s320/IMG_2129.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div>
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Welcome to the world, baby girl - or boy.</div>
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£14.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6FrvXx-BTn1eNQks2jVoF-7GXruEytitn4XWcBkvPcOZlzNM7uCAguqeWHHRaZAE_r6q2BOM9zb_cbWmojFwkgdJElgrrKpFY5YcgPn-MJ6cL6_O0kUe61fcgClNxCItRkc604Dx8kiQ/s1600/IMG_2137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6FrvXx-BTn1eNQks2jVoF-7GXruEytitn4XWcBkvPcOZlzNM7uCAguqeWHHRaZAE_r6q2BOM9zb_cbWmojFwkgdJElgrrKpFY5YcgPn-MJ6cL6_O0kUe61fcgClNxCItRkc604Dx8kiQ/s320/IMG_2137.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="240" /></a></div>
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Hold your dreams to your heart, and may </div>
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flights of angels lead you on your way.</div>
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£14.95</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Things to do necklaces</span></div>
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Anyone for tennis? £14.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJmjch0OB_0weBSxA6CDrpHm6lnWuOeHS-aQD2T91h0ExfyLIqCkFNvOIPzeFlN142Gy1e_xbfMDD5CE0iFW9zC2tIAJ33UVFSWm8ZTuztF4yn17MmW6bTw_pNvk-8q5INHW4qO6ZS1cE/s1600/IMG_2138.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJmjch0OB_0weBSxA6CDrpHm6lnWuOeHS-aQD2T91h0ExfyLIqCkFNvOIPzeFlN142Gy1e_xbfMDD5CE0iFW9zC2tIAJ33UVFSWm8ZTuztF4yn17MmW6bTw_pNvk-8q5INHW4qO6ZS1cE/s320/IMG_2138.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="199" /></a></div>
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Quel knit-wit, darling! £14.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjinZ7Pb7PKQ_Ag226aWq6ZHgVXqMDAxmOwbompYrbP9zEVOf3ojn0nwFgLeWaFujyfyPsUoti2coAfs1CveHXDdL1FdkbA13gVofP9m8PZwJfklgbTxyjQcpJEKClmtjsZJ5oHnv3NyKU/s1600/IMG_2140.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjinZ7Pb7PKQ_Ag226aWq6ZHgVXqMDAxmOwbompYrbP9zEVOf3ojn0nwFgLeWaFujyfyPsUoti2coAfs1CveHXDdL1FdkbA13gVofP9m8PZwJfklgbTxyjQcpJEKClmtjsZJ5oHnv3NyKU/s320/IMG_2140.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="173" /></a></div>
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Guild of Seamstresses - the oldest profession on the Discworld.</div>
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This may mean nothing to you, but it makes me laugh!</div>
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Nifty necklace, too...</div>
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£14.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjCpfwIdmWdbyxStFol1XSGR6HJ9CbW_wSHh9ydD_ZSjPjNbROeLsESSHdIfe2NrfP_OrfOgeg6Obklvvk_p3_oODhBn8x0apaJCWYl3Rl6OzHUPly0H6DF2JZEp9e3UTcj61tJEj6ShY/s1600/IMG_2148.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjCpfwIdmWdbyxStFol1XSGR6HJ9CbW_wSHh9ydD_ZSjPjNbROeLsESSHdIfe2NrfP_OrfOgeg6Obklvvk_p3_oODhBn8x0apaJCWYl3Rl6OzHUPly0H6DF2JZEp9e3UTcj61tJEj6ShY/s320/IMG_2148.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="164" /></a></div>
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More of the arty, less of the farty.</div>
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£14.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDksS7PBTtIu2b0QAIuD6eCNE95i5qMVjdSkbXe-zsYPuWBGqcAeuVvrSYfo_J96S8FH_LhBgefVmIEfbQm_9RhWvQIlNBBbS9oKgwYFrL2DQXaWSWVNX9gGwkH3QFP-zBfe5gSHsm8-c/s1600/IMG_2146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDksS7PBTtIu2b0QAIuD6eCNE95i5qMVjdSkbXe-zsYPuWBGqcAeuVvrSYfo_J96S8FH_LhBgefVmIEfbQm_9RhWvQIlNBBbS9oKgwYFrL2DQXaWSWVNX9gGwkH3QFP-zBfe5gSHsm8-c/s320/IMG_2146.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="176" /></a></div>
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It's a GIRLS' NIGHT OUT!</div>
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Strappy sandal - check!</div>
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Cocktail - check!</div>
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Extremely cool transport (for posing by not for riding - too many cocktails) - check!</div>
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£14.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxehrQ2EKAMRvVeEeeftTVtmroJYseqfl8kG_EzDV6y4x3dBlaZ3m26GK9HBtgZgxCOyt8oA2XWFZUX82kcD2QNBmJRzb9aCf_Z7kZ3uqVzlzPsqygIzMtOrqTj1kzz8aHNQpHBtuaUw0/s1600/IMG_2147.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxehrQ2EKAMRvVeEeeftTVtmroJYseqfl8kG_EzDV6y4x3dBlaZ3m26GK9HBtgZgxCOyt8oA2XWFZUX82kcD2QNBmJRzb9aCf_Z7kZ3uqVzlzPsqygIzMtOrqTj1kzz8aHNQpHBtuaUw0/s320/IMG_2147.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="173" /></a></div>
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Ooops - spent too much in Maz's shop - it'll have to be a...</div>
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GIRLS' NIGHT IN!</div>
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Glass of wine - who brought the corkscrew (you did!) - and</div>
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we'll all soon be seeing stars and birdies!</div>
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£14.95</div>
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Mother & Daughter</div>
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Matching pairs of bracelets for mothers and daughters.</div>
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Any colours and charms you see anywhere on these pages.</div>
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Doesn't have to be pairs - you can include a second daughter, a third generation - whatever you like. Just give me the nod!</div>
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£7.95 each without semi-precious stones</div>
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£8.95 each with semi-precious stones</div>
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Examples:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK8iBuqESzrJ0nrk5-oVLE4L3V7IiEoBoSRu9HvNaYw8YHS9iB6gpf3gRJRPSIYXFdisP9NynEApxa5IASJ_mjt5-H5QIL0LJtmQkaemLMoEnDxND6DritDEcdThzK7n3ccCRqO8A8oSA/s1600/IMG_2079.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="86" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK8iBuqESzrJ0nrk5-oVLE4L3V7IiEoBoSRu9HvNaYw8YHS9iB6gpf3gRJRPSIYXFdisP9NynEApxa5IASJ_mjt5-H5QIL0LJtmQkaemLMoEnDxND6DritDEcdThzK7n3ccCRqO8A8oSA/s320/IMG_2079.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgelfqFXkHGe9_EaTKKlvfuXjzGs1zcbcMRVMeTpQmy6ZX-zQJbVykPFW6XSxJRHfBkCPxlAnJcx2xAj0Lf_vG3WMBwXMj-vwg9cU8ztvPBmtkXYXW1zFCI3PQ4w6ho5FBhxO0lTi_1Zjg/s1600/IMG_2081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="103" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgelfqFXkHGe9_EaTKKlvfuXjzGs1zcbcMRVMeTpQmy6ZX-zQJbVykPFW6XSxJRHfBkCPxlAnJcx2xAj0Lf_vG3WMBwXMj-vwg9cU8ztvPBmtkXYXW1zFCI3PQ4w6ho5FBhxO0lTi_1Zjg/s320/IMG_2081.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Other lovely things:</span></div>
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Bracelets</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFbhZZlDFCwP6ucx-JS3mMnCODSrxhQCM6N_awXnFtzA4XjThdCwOjV6WXiEq84GqCTv_8yJ0_ReIzbVVk3GnfU1y3nKJKtkSCwmGb9iPnyOm45CbE-Mv2kmkAx6XO1zWMESO_h8IU_jA/s1600/IMG_2083.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFbhZZlDFCwP6ucx-JS3mMnCODSrxhQCM6N_awXnFtzA4XjThdCwOjV6WXiEq84GqCTv_8yJ0_ReIzbVVk3GnfU1y3nKJKtkSCwmGb9iPnyOm45CbE-Mv2kmkAx6XO1zWMESO_h8IU_jA/s320/IMG_2083.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYbwRRYvA2KZsjm30LHGSsaoFtI1TQTgi4Ada1VtmXqRk98LPEUS6anoKGQ8tF1wm0Jq1HQzegaEJJeCZIM9Chnch5wI12R9kDO2z0idwn-cNOQx3bDy2jbrFRVifK0G5MVErmKkuSOEc/s1600/IMG_2082.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYbwRRYvA2KZsjm30LHGSsaoFtI1TQTgi4Ada1VtmXqRk98LPEUS6anoKGQ8tF1wm0Jq1HQzegaEJJeCZIM9Chnch5wI12R9kDO2z0idwn-cNOQx3bDy2jbrFRVifK0G5MVErmKkuSOEc/s320/IMG_2082.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Lilac waxed cord and pink plastic stars - £4.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGOkclo6Mz3-v6xpBLx5KnVf7CF1tXntwOCNt1E44FIXiTOv3J4N5ZJ0e3Sa5XlA4UjSgj5_cU1a_dUJD_5_eJ5Xs_X2Q1uyAh3Q7XKzUOdLKv7oYvlehvvpviS21T_IGkHw3WjX0I9f4/s1600/IMG_2084.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGOkclo6Mz3-v6xpBLx5KnVf7CF1tXntwOCNt1E44FIXiTOv3J4N5ZJ0e3Sa5XlA4UjSgj5_cU1a_dUJD_5_eJ5Xs_X2Q1uyAh3Q7XKzUOdLKv7oYvlehvvpviS21T_IGkHw3WjX0I9f4/s320/IMG_2084.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Lilac waxed cord, green mother of pearl button and iridescent blue/green beads.</div>
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£7.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVZ-gBNHxZYBUWQSDk_OiOPSGNDWrq0l4tAaPD2ojQjX_si0ao80MjXRxDoNXVzUPmpT7AaR3mzAvKuOJP8Q8s1BeU4Df_1tk577qECVKsueQ8zF1s1TnjUfxTYmjOL-dUuDCguV6GSfI/s1600/IMG_2088.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVZ-gBNHxZYBUWQSDk_OiOPSGNDWrq0l4tAaPD2ojQjX_si0ao80MjXRxDoNXVzUPmpT7AaR3mzAvKuOJP8Q8s1BeU4Df_1tk577qECVKsueQ8zF1s1TnjUfxTYmjOL-dUuDCguV6GSfI/s320/IMG_2088.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Blue waxed linen cord, purple mother of pearl button, dice, beads - general loveliness.</div>
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£7.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4Gh4ZAGmsW7M8G9kxRcijP5v8Lq-OR0WYpmiLtFPaxlLnsFlcoIMuDMFC4LCoTbB96WVoQN34YgZ9pC8xwWz6YiO8C5CNg3SghKzHtDoIYVRaN63erG_UMquc0urpWzLgnd4SUqa-wQ/s1600/IMG_2089.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4Gh4ZAGmsW7M8G9kxRcijP5v8Lq-OR0WYpmiLtFPaxlLnsFlcoIMuDMFC4LCoTbB96WVoQN34YgZ9pC8xwWz6YiO8C5CNg3SghKzHtDoIYVRaN63erG_UMquc0urpWzLgnd4SUqa-wQ/s320/IMG_2089.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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All the purples, and a big pink button.</div>
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£7.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipklvznAwFi8hXfekj-ZkU9NUotxJ5XQbGpVPpM-fSbzw9kNXebYbxFzLwMK4u5hBu0jrzf6Mul6l3_MyqDb0jS5Wsgk8-LkKldvI95zC5clfVjROG6OcSZeqrZNhgHf1HIwFRMluMTjM/s1600/IMG_2093.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipklvznAwFi8hXfekj-ZkU9NUotxJ5XQbGpVPpM-fSbzw9kNXebYbxFzLwMK4u5hBu0jrzf6Mul6l3_MyqDb0jS5Wsgk8-LkKldvI95zC5clfVjROG6OcSZeqrZNhgHf1HIwFRMluMTjM/s320/IMG_2093.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Teeny tiny blue glass beads and a little natural button. The very thing to </div>
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finish off your casual, surf-chick look. £7.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUkn2jpI6AD5IwCI2YlIdan60sojd9Do75RURa66VLkgQdj3Kvnq3CyxbjNkQO-0x_oY4rIwel00HJE6MGFIBxzL6Hqg_YKa6gS2VNoggHl14mHE6XmHC9jHjvDYP_2ngNqemyjqMd54A/s1600/IMG_2095.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="56" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUkn2jpI6AD5IwCI2YlIdan60sojd9Do75RURa66VLkgQdj3Kvnq3CyxbjNkQO-0x_oY4rIwel00HJE6MGFIBxzL6Hqg_YKa6gS2VNoggHl14mHE6XmHC9jHjvDYP_2ngNqemyjqMd54A/s320/IMG_2095.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Fly the flag! Red, white and blue, or bleu, blanc, rouge, depending on</div>
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which way up you wear it. The ultimate entente cordiale bracelet.</div>
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£7.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBS8fTvAs8XlKROARg3IaG0EOsxIVR7W7OWZUlW7J__FlFXd5o84KT9uHZCeAbwFR3Te0YIv-wv6lRkcqMNaHQArzT90aWHfOIQ-yanCe2fD_qBqyoLQypUh8AZza7oAVCa-yhClVcbNc/s1600/IMG_2096.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBS8fTvAs8XlKROARg3IaG0EOsxIVR7W7OWZUlW7J__FlFXd5o84KT9uHZCeAbwFR3Te0YIv-wv6lRkcqMNaHQArzT90aWHfOIQ-yanCe2fD_qBqyoLQypUh8AZza7oAVCa-yhClVcbNc/s320/IMG_2096.jpg" width="270" /></a></div>
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Green glass, waxed linen and a pretty, flower shaped button.</div>
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More surf-chick chic. £7.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT8liDM_hwgTQKsKRvKXUK-iiVZWCsc5zyvY8PLzba6A62xy8CAu1XezUX8QHDNEBrOppSn81WF70XwHdiZ433ycASJxDGsskGwDd24K8htLNNkf4mmB5W7ecn5P7ExESWX6xMrp1XktA/s1600/IMG_2098.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT8liDM_hwgTQKsKRvKXUK-iiVZWCsc5zyvY8PLzba6A62xy8CAu1XezUX8QHDNEBrOppSn81WF70XwHdiZ433ycASJxDGsskGwDd24K8htLNNkf4mmB5W7ecn5P7ExESWX6xMrp1XktA/s320/IMG_2098.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Just no end to the beach-wear!</div>
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I LOVE these matte gold beads.</div>
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£7.95</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Necklaces & Pendants</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSextUu4CPVoATn0XQpUDE4iovEyAr8KPC8iIy98zlElSO55GMYAgpa4nmB-9q4cUGW5Z-6e6mqGmKBFzmX9hwH42KEBPXFehf0oMr54jqL66epC3wdg66bMkIif1R7w8mm8lVRXi7twY/s1600/IMG_2104.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSextUu4CPVoATn0XQpUDE4iovEyAr8KPC8iIy98zlElSO55GMYAgpa4nmB-9q4cUGW5Z-6e6mqGmKBFzmX9hwH42KEBPXFehf0oMr54jqL66epC3wdg66bMkIif1R7w8mm8lVRXi7twY/s320/IMG_2104.jpg" width="149" /></a></div>
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Freshwater Pearl & Heart</div>
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On chain: £16.95</div>
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On waxed linen cord: £12.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-j8XC46jlccHiIciBNWq43VXeL1C1dH9ekPJowI-zr5c2dHKENqIyJVaIvWsp6D1knNj0AQRGgQUZxqADohn9JDVXtBGUc5UHl2y5SD1IJ1RLVGKj3opGJDEGx_3D8BO_nxF1qLMWu0k/s1600/IMG_2107.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-j8XC46jlccHiIciBNWq43VXeL1C1dH9ekPJowI-zr5c2dHKENqIyJVaIvWsp6D1knNj0AQRGgQUZxqADohn9JDVXtBGUc5UHl2y5SD1IJ1RLVGKj3opGJDEGx_3D8BO_nxF1qLMWu0k/s320/IMG_2107.jpg" width="215" /></a></div>
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Froggy did a-wooing go, and fell in love with this gorgeous glittering lilypad</div>
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£10.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9VYR2U2izhTlByb9_wu7nagNjqH9ooOwN-NM6bnYWUoHy0LlWTdK0-AUmtcttEtXmBDst0-7JYV31UbJClGNWP1pSu1IHs7-VYajU7Cy0-4kzLXyOTwCdKrUp91UCVvE6ixxCobssD44/s1600/IMG_2108.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9VYR2U2izhTlByb9_wu7nagNjqH9ooOwN-NM6bnYWUoHy0LlWTdK0-AUmtcttEtXmBDst0-7JYV31UbJClGNWP1pSu1IHs7-VYajU7Cy0-4kzLXyOTwCdKrUp91UCVvE6ixxCobssD44/s320/IMG_2108.jpg" width="251" /></a></div>
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Faith hoop, with a teeny guardian angel, on blue waxed linen cord</div>
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£10.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgslCPmer-KZxm1mYtYMgwfPqJ0CM1QA6J8dOb_qyset7C9W-mhrhITc_lGdjN3fuGF-kkyYu8fnsnCuU05wpGm9VfmIslRC81DawcUs94L4uvWx4fk9VF5TXzqdWtpSap4Bq28WdWzjRs/s1600/IMG_2109.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgslCPmer-KZxm1mYtYMgwfPqJ0CM1QA6J8dOb_qyset7C9W-mhrhITc_lGdjN3fuGF-kkyYu8fnsnCuU05wpGm9VfmIslRC81DawcUs94L4uvWx4fk9VF5TXzqdWtpSap4Bq28WdWzjRs/s320/IMG_2109.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>
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Pearls of wisdom - freshwater pearl</div>
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£12.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQYuzPoP5lolQZmk6KtcA6ugYk9RXpEYalxIUgm9WZQfhyfC7CvIpIl6erRhLjDqGmDgfp2_LLzaqfT2vD8j4aOULhCdw4LCwClG_hEXJ4tgWv8ag9qqBY-SGW3bIoUcKViRrbf_AxU2s/s1600/IMG_2103.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQYuzPoP5lolQZmk6KtcA6ugYk9RXpEYalxIUgm9WZQfhyfC7CvIpIl6erRhLjDqGmDgfp2_LLzaqfT2vD8j4aOULhCdw4LCwClG_hEXJ4tgWv8ag9qqBY-SGW3bIoUcKViRrbf_AxU2s/s320/IMG_2103.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="193" /></a></div>
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Freshwater pears and handmade glass beads</div>
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£12.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd1KZfgnlUPPdBtdp2kxUR8y7DaXfA8PaW_ucPmOo58UhwISYZQCXkMKsYF0DUZsQAq1BcS61ADIViVETZka99nxVqBD121pnJzColERDOZLzlp8gT2moKFawQ7hyphenhyphen8Z53xzDY9xW97pGw/s1600/IMG_2116.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd1KZfgnlUPPdBtdp2kxUR8y7DaXfA8PaW_ucPmOo58UhwISYZQCXkMKsYF0DUZsQAq1BcS61ADIViVETZka99nxVqBD121pnJzColERDOZLzlp8gT2moKFawQ7hyphenhyphen8Z53xzDY9xW97pGw/s320/IMG_2116.jpg" width="260" /></a></div>
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Gorgeous green cubes of loveliness</div>
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£8.50</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8nLlDTgSteTd3JglGGQSG7BRRjCV1cS4XwqCO6nUUUCSXKIwXSe8C3zbBb2CwaI7AiohXOeUZxWv-feaPneNTGDYwmrNQZwquVOWKFgonzTXESCg2J1LhW_GLOr-HX7wj1wxBV4surcM/s1600/IMG_2117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8nLlDTgSteTd3JglGGQSG7BRRjCV1cS4XwqCO6nUUUCSXKIwXSe8C3zbBb2CwaI7AiohXOeUZxWv-feaPneNTGDYwmrNQZwquVOWKFgonzTXESCg2J1LhW_GLOr-HX7wj1wxBV4surcM/s320/IMG_2117.jpg" width="227" /></a></div>
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Big sister to the above</div>
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£8.50</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrwkp3jGmLvVUX2wVV-H8vla1HeX_XbXxy8AFBvN1Ar7o8u28zr2x9DNsbHt0k5YbZehD-48eGv2z8CvoyHxjx71R5OrwrCf-0B3duAkoULo1zTS31ATd8XI4Yu06SxdFKndsNtZPj1IE/s1600/IMG_2118.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrwkp3jGmLvVUX2wVV-H8vla1HeX_XbXxy8AFBvN1Ar7o8u28zr2x9DNsbHt0k5YbZehD-48eGv2z8CvoyHxjx71R5OrwrCf-0B3duAkoULo1zTS31ATd8XI4Yu06SxdFKndsNtZPj1IE/s320/IMG_2118.jpg" width="218" /></a></div>
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Bugles and rocailles</div>
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£6.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8H4X96g6QuwShObPyHZsUsMIgG0GOmamoOszgH0zO4oc9-RBBt8hdOBjcjwCE4ciXrV9BQQsnxuR_9Fak0YEsdaCYA5Zkv0-rzxowLyk7KL7g1C-x2Abycqq4qUsNGrH3AtSH34m4ppc/s1600/IMG_2119.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8H4X96g6QuwShObPyHZsUsMIgG0GOmamoOszgH0zO4oc9-RBBt8hdOBjcjwCE4ciXrV9BQQsnxuR_9Fak0YEsdaCYA5Zkv0-rzxowLyk7KL7g1C-x2Abycqq4qUsNGrH3AtSH34m4ppc/s320/IMG_2119.jpg" width="184" /></a></div>
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Spaced out, maaaan</div>
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£6.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9DoDhylhLUyXQ8IvJ21FIHrPlx1ahOkJsyDCs8wX3uGSfwBGtIVuysMHU58xYXcqmUr0O1ICMTrOcNCy4AkwQYYiVIR_JL2KLAbncvgJCYMOLvaSxeV5cz9_bpSKISYGqeghvz396qfU/s1600/IMG_2123.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9DoDhylhLUyXQ8IvJ21FIHrPlx1ahOkJsyDCs8wX3uGSfwBGtIVuysMHU58xYXcqmUr0O1ICMTrOcNCy4AkwQYYiVIR_JL2KLAbncvgJCYMOLvaSxeV5cz9_bpSKISYGqeghvz396qfU/s320/IMG_2123.jpg" width="138" /></a></div>
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There's a star man, hanging off my ear</div>
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Blue glass, silver stars, snowflake spacers - really rather elegant, m'loves.</div>
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£10.00</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">iPad Sleeves</span></div>
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These are all I have left. I'm making some more, so if you'd like a specific design or motif, let me know before I spend all my time doing something nobody wants!</div>
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They are made in grey felt, needle-felted with 100% pure merino wool tops in gloriously rich colours. They're lined with soft fleece to keep your precious iPad perfectly smooth and unscratched, and sandwiched between the felt and the fleece is a layer of strong, waterproof padding to keep your iPad safe from minor to medium incidents. If you drop a brick on it or chuck it in the river, I can't promise you won't knacker it, though....</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX9TDFfITR6vlp3YQ2IHJkk7OtN2an4FGh-4eSsiUvtZg-o0J3jjQeL_ZtlJU340COxC1KNvnIAOLrvfjXTF5wztAwmtOPUfH5cJwq6oYGRKay2dwVm-dmrPHMUZhAiMS2S19j3hEo-M8/s1600/IMG_2150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX9TDFfITR6vlp3YQ2IHJkk7OtN2an4FGh-4eSsiUvtZg-o0J3jjQeL_ZtlJU340COxC1KNvnIAOLrvfjXTF5wztAwmtOPUfH5cJwq6oYGRKay2dwVm-dmrPHMUZhAiMS2S19j3hEo-M8/s320/IMG_2150.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Battle of Britain / RAF iPad Sleeve</div>
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£35</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDajehjOEBN0lSBJjpXWDlqXP_KdcMmh9pbj61N2Dy7w1ta2Aka46d_aX0x_pK7njYl_b1xN-OFgwHCLPgXmZU_ptWuLMUpNmqBHh22hLG9dbNIYOmPOXC53BAoLMcjDZdrTJozq1LuG8/s1600/IMG_2151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDajehjOEBN0lSBJjpXWDlqXP_KdcMmh9pbj61N2Dy7w1ta2Aka46d_aX0x_pK7njYl_b1xN-OFgwHCLPgXmZU_ptWuLMUpNmqBHh22hLG9dbNIYOmPOXC53BAoLMcjDZdrTJozq1LuG8/s320/IMG_2151.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Purple Jack</div>
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£35</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRKhXqXMWtVEXLAHyiKaDXlZyy5hxc7de_h8S_KRSVXrpsggP_xw0v2GwZEwcGJZhRCy2RN718jVhV-5Pfyne8-siXXN88kcBlZkDSPEO5SMxJwUJOeJQNndylnNs205w_hw0YzYv1vGQ/s1600/IMG_2152.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRKhXqXMWtVEXLAHyiKaDXlZyy5hxc7de_h8S_KRSVXrpsggP_xw0v2GwZEwcGJZhRCy2RN718jVhV-5Pfyne8-siXXN88kcBlZkDSPEO5SMxJwUJOeJQNndylnNs205w_hw0YzYv1vGQ/s320/IMG_2152.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Monsieur l'Hibou</div>
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£35</div>
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I will also be doing co-ordinated iPhone sleeves, but as I've completely sold out of them, I can't show you a picture. They're bloody lovely, though, to be honest - and only a tenner. Bargain, innit?!</div>
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That's it for today, my darlings.</div>
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Do get in touch with any comments or questions - there's some boxes down there somewhere, I think?</div>
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Toodles!</div>
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Maz x</div>
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<br />Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-45650241423609002162012-11-19T07:37:00.001-08:002012-11-19T07:37:30.293-08:00Maz's One Stop Christmas Shop part 1So, as some of you know, I have been busy beavering away making things like a woman demented, and now find myself in the happy situation of having lots of lovely things to sell at just the time of year when lovely people WANT to buy lovely things for their equally lovely friends and family (plus for some ghastly people who they really DON'T want to buy for, but feel they really have to).<br />
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This is where I enter, stage left.<br />
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All the items for sale below are made by me. Any foody things have been grown in my garden wherever possible, and all grown without recourse to any nasty things like weedkiller etc (mostly because I can't work out how to use it without potentially devastating effect on the froggy population - see blog on frog sex above). The craft stuff is pretty much all one-offs - I have an inCREDibly low boredom threshold, to be honest, so I tend not to make the same thing twice. That said, if you absolutely love something which I've already sold, I can make you something which is, at the very least, VERY similar. Fair enough?<br />
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I'll also do anything (within reason) (stop it!) to order. So if you have a niece who loves fishing and DIY, I will happily make her a bracelet, necklace or earrings consisting entirely of fish and hammers. I'm not snobby like that.<br />
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iPad, iPod and phone covers are also entirely personaliseable (spellcheck doesn't like that word. I don't blame it - I don't like it either. Going to change that sentence, hang on... *thinks*). I am also happy to custom-make iPad, iPod and phone covers to your requirements (much better!). Kindle covers, too. Or little tiny bags just big enough to hold your phone and your door keys while you walk the dog. Whatever. Seriously. Bring me your requirements, and I will bring you a product!<br />
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So, grab a cup of tea / glass of wine / large gin (time of day, degree of dipsomania and personal preference depending), and come shopping with me!<br />
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Jewellery first!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd5wjShpTGlBIhwyoURaLHrQF1HFf33dUBRnNMP5jSH-soVwWNJTaL03SGSuQGIGoXRUqOS2dNa6wNAszQ8JdNjuzXs4Q_K8s-NAEcopY2MPhOweOiLSn2B3p55D57zyhsop1Cczj6zs8/s1600/IMG_1990.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd5wjShpTGlBIhwyoURaLHrQF1HFf33dUBRnNMP5jSH-soVwWNJTaL03SGSuQGIGoXRUqOS2dNa6wNAszQ8JdNjuzXs4Q_K8s-NAEcopY2MPhOweOiLSn2B3p55D57zyhsop1Cczj6zs8/s320/IMG_1990.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Green frosted glass - £8.50</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4jbfxIKm1TThJNZ8hDT3ZnAALW90mV6OMTZumN4RA7th7WOKpLrpH0p7xp62YkNrtvozivsNiSvFIb3hGx5QWZWKNX9H3thUzeK8BNa_dMHaCJouzdQ76DkeXQ-tKGc6f7mD2057g-G0/s1600/IMG_1991.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4jbfxIKm1TThJNZ8hDT3ZnAALW90mV6OMTZumN4RA7th7WOKpLrpH0p7xp62YkNrtvozivsNiSvFIb3hGx5QWZWKNX9H3thUzeK8BNa_dMHaCJouzdQ76DkeXQ-tKGc6f7mD2057g-G0/s320/IMG_1991.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Pink frosted glass - £8.50</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6P7Ju3s2WpkWveWnZHiZo43xgvmKD4O379UPygRkU4QKA_OQyCJz6YfuN0OYvZPGLJRJCoMs9KnVD-GbmLwis_jXsdAMLMXtkKdfhKcPuoFnJAnUNC2BILAZD0eXJ7K-wOZ-Cbx_ZXeo/s1600/IMG_1992.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6P7Ju3s2WpkWveWnZHiZo43xgvmKD4O379UPygRkU4QKA_OQyCJz6YfuN0OYvZPGLJRJCoMs9KnVD-GbmLwis_jXsdAMLMXtkKdfhKcPuoFnJAnUNC2BILAZD0eXJ7K-wOZ-Cbx_ZXeo/s320/IMG_1992.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Iridescent glass, silvered on one side (see below) with silver star drops - £10.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0q1k8xhc5sWh-KGBFMil748WOqlvqVmrKQaX-nFdTa3WQL2h-ZapEAXysG8V0nEk-ysMGUj90FcNiXP925d8BWreccPOvDQ6Hze7FIUaLmiS_PfFaE_aiT3wTWsuiC3Ea0EVqhrxUsX4/s1600/IMG_1994.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0q1k8xhc5sWh-KGBFMil748WOqlvqVmrKQaX-nFdTa3WQL2h-ZapEAXysG8V0nEk-ysMGUj90FcNiXP925d8BWreccPOvDQ6Hze7FIUaLmiS_PfFaE_aiT3wTWsuiC3Ea0EVqhrxUsX4/s320/IMG_1994.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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(turned to show silvering)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuz7MgDtI4SWPhcm6svt5Ry_Z6HUFmif7JrWKCjzxQDydhNGQXps-Y9HZkRhCytkvxKnkxnay9qMKRYe3UlYqWHuRUO1iraOeF9SuwAkvQ7bS5WpVoF-sFUTPWUL-a_pWdr9mda8PyB28/s1600/IMG_1995.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuz7MgDtI4SWPhcm6svt5Ry_Z6HUFmif7JrWKCjzxQDydhNGQXps-Y9HZkRhCytkvxKnkxnay9qMKRYe3UlYqWHuRUO1iraOeF9SuwAkvQ7bS5WpVoF-sFUTPWUL-a_pWdr9mda8PyB28/s320/IMG_1995.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Turquoise cubes - I know they look purple, but they're not! - £8.50</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH-BfLHAmkon5dKcYGwQGpau33DdIkzxTFDx27GF1ZJGqRIDeiLEaEDMO6CQsdP8svgEajbxXvQBRK3_3el3GhOmTHsxvyNLdqTKER04DdtdSY7ODOHGoLlT255Z03aSzyUqMMs8MjuSw/s1600/IMG_1996.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH-BfLHAmkon5dKcYGwQGpau33DdIkzxTFDx27GF1ZJGqRIDeiLEaEDMO6CQsdP8svgEajbxXvQBRK3_3el3GhOmTHsxvyNLdqTKER04DdtdSY7ODOHGoLlT255Z03aSzyUqMMs8MjuSw/s320/IMG_1996.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Again, turquoise cubes, not purple as they appear in the photo, with silver star drops - £10.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9H1f8LdXMIUt4WFgC6VtjLm9_9E1-pZNUHldzeVkQvrs5l6q8EgcGgdkiAGgZmcliGs1296dsMlBNcAnLASOIlw0AQg0-aBDwa5pWyuOdOP7El228keLUpChcNhGoPNo5WMeT70NaQc/s1600/IMG_1998.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9H1f8LdXMIUt4WFgC6VtjLm9_9E1-pZNUHldzeVkQvrs5l6q8EgcGgdkiAGgZmcliGs1296dsMlBNcAnLASOIlw0AQg0-aBDwa5pWyuOdOP7El228keLUpChcNhGoPNo5WMeT70NaQc/s320/IMG_1998.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Crystal clear glass with freshwater pearl drops - £12.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixIoTX0n4l5U0pA77po3pdHegA5VOk1jVMA3CLBIn_Aq25jwk5lMdiuNdIcc6ZyO2EGqOuhdeGVYeAIBZEUks3HB4FxfGSImEESOFRq0C1ejoW1zg-pKNE_rahsz421RYwQSoyDHNudVQ/s1600/IMG_1999.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixIoTX0n4l5U0pA77po3pdHegA5VOk1jVMA3CLBIn_Aq25jwk5lMdiuNdIcc6ZyO2EGqOuhdeGVYeAIBZEUks3HB4FxfGSImEESOFRq0C1ejoW1zg-pKNE_rahsz421RYwQSoyDHNudVQ/s320/IMG_1999.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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£10.00 (also available in burgundy)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdyW5ilc0UvGQ0nukrE_agh3UfRLYkr9PTccJdTvHfHYzZoVx5es6YkSwHB-ph3EtFYgK5jc6lTtQtYGkiBZBLxMm6StYV_TAI4u10BP_l8WafBYWXjUDaFZXpBLPtUsx0A1z1Zajxnh8/s1600/IMG_2002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdyW5ilc0UvGQ0nukrE_agh3UfRLYkr9PTccJdTvHfHYzZoVx5es6YkSwHB-ph3EtFYgK5jc6lTtQtYGkiBZBLxMm6StYV_TAI4u10BP_l8WafBYWXjUDaFZXpBLPtUsx0A1z1Zajxnh8/s320/IMG_2002.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Mermaid and Dolphin with turquoise and blue rocailles - £10.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja1-jm3u6S05fRA6qPkssJ_wFCLkDtbrXm4f4sl4sUUTX7q8a9O5TDa31VgHMGSEKSdqI2ayqxAqVFmVFiQMs3hg3lTA8a3V5HopWeovuyxVGdpZtkKGTPhaePXCLMSW7zzTeAKZXyz4k/s1600/IMG_2003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja1-jm3u6S05fRA6qPkssJ_wFCLkDtbrXm4f4sl4sUUTX7q8a9O5TDa31VgHMGSEKSdqI2ayqxAqVFmVFiQMs3hg3lTA8a3V5HopWeovuyxVGdpZtkKGTPhaePXCLMSW7zzTeAKZXyz4k/s320/IMG_2003.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Terrarium - a mini garden around your neck! Self sustaining. Fang shaped £12.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7AJlQGNIJ2c-mrp1vF3v-pRGdvZB6eC4F3soO1DKdLzDiwn5JOlDYlmixR-H5fbCVcSfvg6n1uGCyJmOsdUaPEHiPfE8SN6L68ov6ThtKT9v0nFNA8Z6mfnYoHUp93GLuv2-e24K_lF4/s1600/IMG_2004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7AJlQGNIJ2c-mrp1vF3v-pRGdvZB6eC4F3soO1DKdLzDiwn5JOlDYlmixR-H5fbCVcSfvg6n1uGCyJmOsdUaPEHiPfE8SN6L68ov6ThtKT9v0nFNA8Z6mfnYoHUp93GLuv2-e24K_lF4/s320/IMG_2004.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Terrarium - a mini garden around your neck! Self sustaining. Pointed Teardrop £12.00</div>
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Other shapes are available, but haven't been photographed yet! Watch this space, or spaces nearby.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIN56SkPwbl63P0E5Ny4TUIRLo8hQdL7d9OLOTTlf4njQZFt9bUr58xNuFqj4j5pAJkcnvHsVyp9naVPCBTDNchv8w8JxXz7Tzfx774MZXXPN5Wh80jP_bqsTbabpLUJH0htXfzeWXfL4/s1600/IMG_2006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIN56SkPwbl63P0E5Ny4TUIRLo8hQdL7d9OLOTTlf4njQZFt9bUr58xNuFqj4j5pAJkcnvHsVyp9naVPCBTDNchv8w8JxXz7Tzfx774MZXXPN5Wh80jP_bqsTbabpLUJH0htXfzeWXfL4/s320/IMG_2006.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Passport and flip-flops with turquoise rocailles - have a nice holiday! £13.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEXBNe4JY__HjzH-1uwAufWGOoEhiBx0gvB8SJFbyMQC8Yz42LAlDJHkfxr7L2kyJdIvt83ghO0Y8hF4xkHckwmMQG6ssrtGBQbZhNFJRmUa8SK_Ys1WpMtbNolJ-5FVjQaqT515TVHjI/s1600/IMG_2007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEXBNe4JY__HjzH-1uwAufWGOoEhiBx0gvB8SJFbyMQC8Yz42LAlDJHkfxr7L2kyJdIvt83ghO0Y8hF4xkHckwmMQG6ssrtGBQbZhNFJRmUa8SK_Ys1WpMtbNolJ-5FVjQaqT515TVHjI/s320/IMG_2007.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Silver stars - £6.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjomT9bbiD8uQGvCkbxUfxHf80EgvbcpeKXWFY3-fh_sAJkq0YadT8AuRd8lGZmkNVruN1Z0iR9HMBcGCqqyFfdpoW0TRScKx1i0qhpBvL7GBqKuzS3EBICmWABYS4ZkVKT1b0JpKOcav4/s1600/IMG_2008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjomT9bbiD8uQGvCkbxUfxHf80EgvbcpeKXWFY3-fh_sAJkq0YadT8AuRd8lGZmkNVruN1Z0iR9HMBcGCqqyFfdpoW0TRScKx1i0qhpBvL7GBqKuzS3EBICmWABYS4ZkVKT1b0JpKOcav4/s320/IMG_2008.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Crystal clear glass with flying hearts - £10.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB2LS2WSewrz_7H3hE6ARUdhAo9QOIETHbchr5drC1N3Z2TWWvKMG8GaRIcXk-YpvOfzyydnSVgCqBPzih9eg2ZH4zrT20qftdttZgy6vGwrLzSMa0jupBBLumMK5hB3yWeBuz7Dv2X3s/s1600/IMG_2009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB2LS2WSewrz_7H3hE6ARUdhAo9QOIETHbchr5drC1N3Z2TWWvKMG8GaRIcXk-YpvOfzyydnSVgCqBPzih9eg2ZH4zrT20qftdttZgy6vGwrLzSMa0jupBBLumMK5hB3yWeBuz7Dv2X3s/s320/IMG_2009.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Gorgeous matte gold polymer beads on blue waxed linen thread with mother of pearl button - £7.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8z-8OrTp1QG2qQ4SQGz37FFvDkkg2aBcYagKG4CZnPCZFlnjeZ1jYojXM4wOPy_c_rpd-R8-jk2J4GU9cXH5YvM3Dtx1D2KYQo36pA_NKAakUb1nLlB0_dQbNpxxCkHbx0Ws83wTsUJ0/s1600/IMG_2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8z-8OrTp1QG2qQ4SQGz37FFvDkkg2aBcYagKG4CZnPCZFlnjeZ1jYojXM4wOPy_c_rpd-R8-jk2J4GU9cXH5YvM3Dtx1D2KYQo36pA_NKAakUb1nLlB0_dQbNpxxCkHbx0Ws83wTsUJ0/s320/IMG_2013.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Articulated binoculars and dolphin with iridescent rocailles and mother of pearl bead - £14.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIGkcsDBSiysGl_WBFHBB09q0_Qyxs0JHXCmnKGN_90hdyGXGQeGtLWj4foChLVfD-COOccmVGecKXABLQbIZVggPgHVrPoFvxUlTsJcRAqLy3JZ0pC0KVCF8ualmM066AA6lrK7pU8t0/s1600/IMG_2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIGkcsDBSiysGl_WBFHBB09q0_Qyxs0JHXCmnKGN_90hdyGXGQeGtLWj4foChLVfD-COOccmVGecKXABLQbIZVggPgHVrPoFvxUlTsJcRAqLy3JZ0pC0KVCF8ualmM066AA6lrK7pU8t0/s320/IMG_2015.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Warm green glass cubes with green rocailles and hearts - £10.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3eaa7MsnCD9V5b1nJwFGD0WQBuy6EovcOFjNkKSyWqA8MnQRcD6OZ7yYeEGsTs32N1uPf-KrLXy-DsQyJm242v8C-i_PwrMLZilLwztNCvpcOtIWSGxyPxvdHrliLm_6rhgnan9A4GX0/s1600/IMG_2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3eaa7MsnCD9V5b1nJwFGD0WQBuy6EovcOFjNkKSyWqA8MnQRcD6OZ7yYeEGsTs32N1uPf-KrLXy-DsQyJm242v8C-i_PwrMLZilLwztNCvpcOtIWSGxyPxvdHrliLm_6rhgnan9A4GX0/s320/IMG_2017.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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White waxed cord with mother of pearl beads and gorgeous matte gold polymer bead - £3.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpWXhf9n32bymK0n9SS0kihLo0bKaWTmSYB5o6zP-iamFjiz4wZaszgR9f1WaIqX5IQfFNJOQAmYHhpg4TBYQ4d5MBDBB7UCqe4Pktq2Tt7njBSiHeb1nifM_HjTDUOfxqjXqGrGoG7Xo/s1600/IMG_2018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpWXhf9n32bymK0n9SS0kihLo0bKaWTmSYB5o6zP-iamFjiz4wZaszgR9f1WaIqX5IQfFNJOQAmYHhpg4TBYQ4d5MBDBB7UCqe4Pktq2Tt7njBSiHeb1nifM_HjTDUOfxqjXqGrGoG7Xo/s320/IMG_2018.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Green waxed cord with gorgeous matte gold polymer bead and natural green shell - £3.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ7w-Qm1zupIl-a-yQeq95VH2NzDiOnwpT8R2wWxLHk4In9hCm5xnvp7G7NOouxF0-dDmWYymo5udMPWGUS_SeA1_RuTEt1CZoJgGVoBODwvWXWi-eHqoUF-GvERJIer0vXLvX7Y0yofg/s1600/IMG_2019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ7w-Qm1zupIl-a-yQeq95VH2NzDiOnwpT8R2wWxLHk4In9hCm5xnvp7G7NOouxF0-dDmWYymo5udMPWGUS_SeA1_RuTEt1CZoJgGVoBODwvWXWi-eHqoUF-GvERJIer0vXLvX7Y0yofg/s320/IMG_2019.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Pink waxed cord with dark and moss green handmade frosted glass beads - £2.50</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3c1GwKOl7Qe-CraeIqULpB-256TT8qC3zUwiTcC2kH2-66QkKgM7wqao5HR02f8UKaeaHQgouCbFNa_zaMoMDM-xU9tWApecRCaKPxo8JdwDq1qrsp2UB3j4lp4GvlFbbFMiGg6OIOP4/s1600/IMG_2020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3c1GwKOl7Qe-CraeIqULpB-256TT8qC3zUwiTcC2kH2-66QkKgM7wqao5HR02f8UKaeaHQgouCbFNa_zaMoMDM-xU9tWApecRCaKPxo8JdwDq1qrsp2UB3j4lp4GvlFbbFMiGg6OIOP4/s320/IMG_2020.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Baby Boy charm bracelet with stars, feet, pram, heart, nappy pin on blue waxed linen cord - £7.95</div>
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(also available in pink for baby girl. NB - these are intended for mummies - not safe for under 3s)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxprFhOob2BZBIXf9Z8T_SAD05ClNXGNW0bBbZ2tiUy9uAE01gFvdkNtHN1py_O9e3DAXt_4rRqxWey56y6Gd-m4dD5tJZugC8dQVRkWH_Tkv5g0qjKpGxdJMjNg3gg_f9MNC5fEkfGC8/s1600/IMG_2022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxprFhOob2BZBIXf9Z8T_SAD05ClNXGNW0bBbZ2tiUy9uAE01gFvdkNtHN1py_O9e3DAXt_4rRqxWey56y6Gd-m4dD5tJZugC8dQVRkWH_Tkv5g0qjKpGxdJMjNg3gg_f9MNC5fEkfGC8/s320/IMG_2022.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Gorgeous matte gold polymer beads on forest green waxed linen cord with golden mother-of-pearl button</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8XNAqWP89Nvc5fg5rz6sJTEtH4DxmRuOTxTu4eqHIapMtUOqFHN9K4Hs1ijCO-O5BlktpxfhBbG1Fe030BnNedMcDPU7AQ9SuTiYEVDW4gnbXqu6xmwno61eG-a7qfBasZYvNEmoHHWo/s1600/IMG_2023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8XNAqWP89Nvc5fg5rz6sJTEtH4DxmRuOTxTu4eqHIapMtUOqFHN9K4Hs1ijCO-O5BlktpxfhBbG1Fe030BnNedMcDPU7AQ9SuTiYEVDW4gnbXqu6xmwno61eG-a7qfBasZYvNEmoHHWo/s320/IMG_2023.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Green waxed cord with green glass beads and amber (the colour, not the stone!) crystal - £3.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNL3yrC98Qt3m9Bbqc9dV3rkwwzx_qOFONCK0jSdYVKB0KL2YbA8yq2UlYbBFHJ6wZmE8XvoE6kd18Y_a_-1SAzaKJXRalKXNxRfHqi3hQwGVqG1Ytq-peDe9bh6V2LoMd_RFrcLgIfZ4/s1600/IMG_2024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNL3yrC98Qt3m9Bbqc9dV3rkwwzx_qOFONCK0jSdYVKB0KL2YbA8yq2UlYbBFHJ6wZmE8XvoE6kd18Y_a_-1SAzaKJXRalKXNxRfHqi3hQwGVqG1Ytq-peDe9bh6V2LoMd_RFrcLgIfZ4/s320/IMG_2024.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Blue waxed cord with "Delft" bead - £2.50</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfWOHqxYcjKkLXgRK7NJouu-tP-l2mNFPkh3k-xddcA7JrrMZHO1D-z4QcT40jOGyPwSmQ0KiSJ4SfqEPDMpqQ2mptFHC2eP3DDGM-Taqo4MvPmSEcvORUTIL__dOe-xbY9x6ch7c1Uac/s1600/IMG_2025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfWOHqxYcjKkLXgRK7NJouu-tP-l2mNFPkh3k-xddcA7JrrMZHO1D-z4QcT40jOGyPwSmQ0KiSJ4SfqEPDMpqQ2mptFHC2eP3DDGM-Taqo4MvPmSEcvORUTIL__dOe-xbY9x6ch7c1Uac/s320/IMG_2025.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Baby Girl charm bracelet with baby feet, hearts, stars, buggy, nappy pin etc - £7.95</div>
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(also available in blue for baby boys - NB: these are intended for mummies - not safe for under 3s)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-vnR8khzsI1OgCKTDy1vCCuUKNWIV_dtQn0pIA_1YGXVl9kG4_ydontpQvItS6Lh0YDHB8KwWeOiNwhueZg7QLDnnpiIs2uevvQssQFG4KM4t_-wUAeWclt8sTLzPU9UtyM3xJ3-XhtY/s1600/IMG_2026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-vnR8khzsI1OgCKTDy1vCCuUKNWIV_dtQn0pIA_1YGXVl9kG4_ydontpQvItS6Lh0YDHB8KwWeOiNwhueZg7QLDnnpiIs2uevvQssQFG4KM4t_-wUAeWclt8sTLzPU9UtyM3xJ3-XhtY/s320/IMG_2026.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Celestial charm bracelet with handmade frosted glass beads, semi-precious stones and mother of pearl beads, heart and star charms, large blue mother of pearl button all on blue waxed linen cord - £8.95</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIw8pXXSnHdVvt6umYl8MYcA6rV_8Vncsqi1ddTFFnkp61XfjITKbU0WSEq6e6YFZAOlP9Ae21nJFn-8AwoyoHfA45mb8Ng8w0IZ_cmix83hZKjq5XiWOhAbYe1OlPiyVV27-B0etIoQM/s1600/IMG_2027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIw8pXXSnHdVvt6umYl8MYcA6rV_8Vncsqi1ddTFFnkp61XfjITKbU0WSEq6e6YFZAOlP9Ae21nJFn-8AwoyoHfA45mb8Ng8w0IZ_cmix83hZKjq5XiWOhAbYe1OlPiyVV27-B0etIoQM/s320/IMG_2027.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Gardener's bracelet.</div>
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Forest green waxed cord with gardening charms, semi precious stones and glorious purple mother of pearl button - £8.95</div>
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(detail pictures below - yes, I do particularly love this one, so maybe snap it up quick if you want it, before I do!)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJky5hZEbZkMzWCfmEWEQan6l1v8jSaIxhHD6qITPhLnJ1JHy32lEWNiskOUSRTLCdN3npzBG071CIMTKCIggZzYKeDi0SEhhwPV2GzCy6zEZO2fdF23YNRaRrWb_DTQaAoCiCXLRsUc/s1600/IMG_2028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJky5hZEbZkMzWCfmEWEQan6l1v8jSaIxhHD6qITPhLnJ1JHy32lEWNiskOUSRTLCdN3npzBG071CIMTKCIggZzYKeDi0SEhhwPV2GzCy6zEZO2fdF23YNRaRrWb_DTQaAoCiCXLRsUc/s320/IMG_2028.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Gardener's bracelet, secateur and snail detail</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhNvzeO_KcoKCEBp5-1N2lDorARy2Es9wXRq40iwuTtxxDh3B-S1AdobgzdcHXjWFShbjuWYIgHkS7tpX8NvmLk7L2Kgl-JuWMt56EB9cwgdKOBJw9zufZMgrIyc_cZnMTDdYxwDSyU_U/s1600/IMG_2029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhNvzeO_KcoKCEBp5-1N2lDorARy2Es9wXRq40iwuTtxxDh3B-S1AdobgzdcHXjWFShbjuWYIgHkS7tpX8NvmLk7L2Kgl-JuWMt56EB9cwgdKOBJw9zufZMgrIyc_cZnMTDdYxwDSyU_U/s320/IMG_2029.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Gardener's bracelet, trowel detail</div>
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguNXLEztns0M7T7RVIJof4l_I-oFQ9UchMVsUTpGNJxROGAB5Ea4lz7X1mp0MxN2JCHfx4eCHMviOkS-IfGn1fiXpotj3e3XE-e8PfO-QGuUs9mPzF9MVKNS-zerX60B1ptnqrHncI7Yg/s1600/IMG_2032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguNXLEztns0M7T7RVIJof4l_I-oFQ9UchMVsUTpGNJxROGAB5Ea4lz7X1mp0MxN2JCHfx4eCHMviOkS-IfGn1fiXpotj3e3XE-e8PfO-QGuUs9mPzF9MVKNS-zerX60B1ptnqrHncI7Yg/s320/IMG_2032.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Holiday bracelet with flip-flops, seahorse, sunglasses, semi precious fluorite beads, on blue waxed linen cord - £8.95</div>
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PHONE BLING! These plug into the headphone socket of your phone, adding instant stylish bling to the plainest phone, and protecting your headphone socket from getting filled with pocket lint. Genius. And a total bargain. Add one to your list, no?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAtznDHR80_VIR8EdZOaa9kOZGCokQkmJulWuW0yxiv_gn8pCLnig4zWB1VsIw1J7X_fTL6fiZi-v00DmrGjm9eHc87OQS1bQ_JypBjWof7KjnfAj3ELlYxn8b9vbRI8Au_rYXAiZ14gg/s1600/IMG_2031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAtznDHR80_VIR8EdZOaa9kOZGCokQkmJulWuW0yxiv_gn8pCLnig4zWB1VsIw1J7X_fTL6fiZi-v00DmrGjm9eHc87OQS1bQ_JypBjWof7KjnfAj3ELlYxn8b9vbRI8Au_rYXAiZ14gg/s320/IMG_2031.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Rocailles & bugles in golds and greens, mother of pearl beads and clear blue handmade glass bead finials - £4.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSyV4xpiQ-zGRnGSfzexVUja8K1DUcCR5g2LWjvWZzT8MlnyMoxvXd5qE-6Lc6bGH0Brspp7tKynsHwy5Yc4-Qc8Krn6kwgF-r7ME-58-B5XtWnsirKOkIxZoM8F7pHIYjKlo5XZ2J3Vs/s1600/IMG_2033.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSyV4xpiQ-zGRnGSfzexVUja8K1DUcCR5g2LWjvWZzT8MlnyMoxvXd5qE-6Lc6bGH0Brspp7tKynsHwy5Yc4-Qc8Krn6kwgF-r7ME-58-B5XtWnsirKOkIxZoM8F7pHIYjKlo5XZ2J3Vs/s320/IMG_2033.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Sequins, rocailles and handmade glass - multi-coloured - £3.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHlfokxTfEzSgTDTf0pjlnFojk6Raf1rHrj91qIg5r7pUSGVjvPKli6aRGtBK7I7ln9lpo2j-tli_rFkLSlUZundAWsuevqRupodPTMguQ6e7WKArynpRkdBBTlCjomuoSGmMErXHAWJM/s1600/IMG_2037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHlfokxTfEzSgTDTf0pjlnFojk6Raf1rHrj91qIg5r7pUSGVjvPKli6aRGtBK7I7ln9lpo2j-tli_rFkLSlUZundAWsuevqRupodPTMguQ6e7WKArynpRkdBBTlCjomuoSGmMErXHAWJM/s320/IMG_2037.jpg" width="130" /></a></div>
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Dark purple/green iridescent beads - three strands - £4.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyjQP3p9P8EeqjkkBmajrFszr1F5EhGM6tE4nGdUpDGn45CTFRyElaDW5aJqxDAbvxr5p3d8yeaa6O_4XwMWOfSIKhrkRVnuoVaZCtavR7H6jXfTziBAo7YxsUolY9EpfJGhzfMnjS1Cs/s1600/IMG_2038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyjQP3p9P8EeqjkkBmajrFszr1F5EhGM6tE4nGdUpDGn45CTFRyElaDW5aJqxDAbvxr5p3d8yeaa6O_4XwMWOfSIKhrkRVnuoVaZCtavR7H6jXfTziBAo7YxsUolY9EpfJGhzfMnjS1Cs/s320/IMG_2038.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Sequins, rocailles and handmade glass - blues & purples - £3.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga5sSQQO6STVIbJopb7nNIvg9DeFb1GYdX0BNiU6fu0S1kZOPrthIbV6nO3crdZD4_8PRzY_xjP4PEylIr6oLFLkDab5vlIDYjmeb7jvXIws4yWt_a8K7myOcWJ5F9d9g8_EGDhJQ03u0/s1600/IMG_2040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga5sSQQO6STVIbJopb7nNIvg9DeFb1GYdX0BNiU6fu0S1kZOPrthIbV6nO3crdZD4_8PRzY_xjP4PEylIr6oLFLkDab5vlIDYjmeb7jvXIws4yWt_a8K7myOcWJ5F9d9g8_EGDhJQ03u0/s320/IMG_2040.jpg" width="260" /></a></div>
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Sequins, rocailles and handmade glass - multi-coloured - £3.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjviTLYmlzyZuC3puvRkjwTt-fpdeYyer60Tiw75-imEvecXzLHwWhnkKc8oGrGxknthU5HyvJW4BMvPu0qlBY36h1l5ZOaDfxfKQwoO7rxIU6pN3JbiOl7-10wDLOqKL2-NIVVzLqNGAo/s1600/IMG_2041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjviTLYmlzyZuC3puvRkjwTt-fpdeYyer60Tiw75-imEvecXzLHwWhnkKc8oGrGxknthU5HyvJW4BMvPu0qlBY36h1l5ZOaDfxfKQwoO7rxIU6pN3JbiOl7-10wDLOqKL2-NIVVzLqNGAo/s320/IMG_2041.jpg" width="183" /></a></div>
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Sequins, rocailles and handmade glass - blues & greens - £3.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhADpJ8zagkqMaotg-1AIv8kwuV3CWONsLHCzu33dWdH5JjwQqp-qpSF-1bDA0vNq45-YNgZbC6vEtf_m6yt1QbipH155Ohr55W6TPOXd_4QUGqBO9G3g5xEBr0VagOxO1C4l54g_JuL4I/s1600/IMG_2035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhADpJ8zagkqMaotg-1AIv8kwuV3CWONsLHCzu33dWdH5JjwQqp-qpSF-1bDA0vNq45-YNgZbC6vEtf_m6yt1QbipH155Ohr55W6TPOXd_4QUGqBO9G3g5xEBr0VagOxO1C4l54g_JuL4I/s320/IMG_2035.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Single strand bling - mother of pearl bead with moonstone drop - classy! - £4.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD_SDKGI1Xv9aeiB3jk0B6JilxAhYykjiO-EtTbipXMxuHBP1WwnqMNst5zHSaEwPPODfupAnL306Ms538MGzePdEsZuGXwruNAyoQo-WDvZumv01B_65cNLxZZKGIv2jynYfTuOiBz2Q/s1600/IMG_2043.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD_SDKGI1Xv9aeiB3jk0B6JilxAhYykjiO-EtTbipXMxuHBP1WwnqMNst5zHSaEwPPODfupAnL306Ms538MGzePdEsZuGXwruNAyoQo-WDvZumv01B_65cNLxZZKGIv2jynYfTuOiBz2Q/s320/IMG_2043.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Sequins, rocailles and handmade glass - greens, pinks & purples - £3.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx8dQ_VlfqD-8TM1JaGAp7E1PB7r459b1Q6JU5affmXh3I2YNIrLL1MY44lFixUUpgtg9Ku8Jd2ZYnsdNqH61T6AvYyzglQBY-wPi2m535nmHw5QTVpccIH-8PypAKrl0H578DcrtgbM8/s1600/IMG_2044.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx8dQ_VlfqD-8TM1JaGAp7E1PB7r459b1Q6JU5affmXh3I2YNIrLL1MY44lFixUUpgtg9Ku8Jd2ZYnsdNqH61T6AvYyzglQBY-wPi2m535nmHw5QTVpccIH-8PypAKrl0H578DcrtgbM8/s320/IMG_2044.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Sequins, rocailles and handmade glass - greens & blues with frosted finials - £3.00</div>
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Bottle necklaces - more to follow.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY8hfxnk-jvVW2kimLLA3mr3clhyphenhyphenywwevneZ2Xfzec57FqwVpKfkGwnIxbZh7SA_xofWQvD96Nc9qOMlZ_oiT2Du5-l3al88mwrsnbC5jiDqAJKM4qWGjgWp8_MGRiPUwNgAGqFjrq1Fs/s1600/IMG_2045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY8hfxnk-jvVW2kimLLA3mr3clhyphenhyphenywwevneZ2Xfzec57FqwVpKfkGwnIxbZh7SA_xofWQvD96Nc9qOMlZ_oiT2Du5-l3al88mwrsnbC5jiDqAJKM4qWGjgWp8_MGRiPUwNgAGqFjrq1Fs/s320/IMG_2045.jpg" width="193" /></a></div>
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Tiny, tiny shells in a tiny, tiny bottle on a waxed linen cord. </div>
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Ideal for that surfy, beachy, relaxed feel.</div>
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£12.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzZsVVQv9bu1z-Y5axEaXZVr3f69FfkT634mkG_aWsjILM1hx8_AZ1RDCXrvMOkCMAVwWL-lObXwq7LfEBUUOBB3KZGRIPXkxLDb6-DxVHvw5t4eV03srzAedfPgwlnxvCWXc97QVM7Ps/s1600/IMG_2047.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzZsVVQv9bu1z-Y5axEaXZVr3f69FfkT634mkG_aWsjILM1hx8_AZ1RDCXrvMOkCMAVwWL-lObXwq7LfEBUUOBB3KZGRIPXkxLDb6-DxVHvw5t4eV03srzAedfPgwlnxvCWXc97QVM7Ps/s320/IMG_2047.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Needle-felted bird brooch in pure merino wool - £5.00</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8t4GyXRDfzmbqHnDsjeLOwHsUGut65yJl4S3wbUWiFC7iUxxCHa04i3O9xZCGpMSqDpUKWAys2Ym9UvqfGQQl93dIFcnpt9gYUMCjQMBAA0_cxoGvTjyd-7-vW05AIVwFiqgzZYdwJzk/s1600/IMG_2048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8t4GyXRDfzmbqHnDsjeLOwHsUGut65yJl4S3wbUWiFC7iUxxCHa04i3O9xZCGpMSqDpUKWAys2Ym9UvqfGQQl93dIFcnpt9gYUMCjQMBAA0_cxoGvTjyd-7-vW05AIVwFiqgzZYdwJzk/s320/IMG_2048.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Needle-felted heart brooch in pure merino wool - £4.00</div>
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Needle-felted planet brooch in pure merino wool with embellishments - £5.00</div>
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Winged heart, needle-felted in pure merino wool with sequin and bead embellishments.</div>
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Looks bloody PROPER on a denim jacket. Snap it up because I'm seriously considering giving it to myself for Christmas and I will not be making another one! £7.50</div>
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Hot air balloon miniature picture brooch in pure merino wool - £5.00</div>
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Frosted glass beads with Tibetan silver spacers - £9.95</div>
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Dark green/purple iridescent beads with Tibetan silver spacers - £9.95</div>
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Dark green/purple iridescent beads with silver spacers - 7.95</div>
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I love you postcard and Love/Heart charm on waxed linen cord - £11.95</div>
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Dream necklace with palm-tree charm on waxed linen cord - £11.95</div>
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Happiness necklace, with heart charm on waxed linen cord - £11.95</div>
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Matte glass iridescent beads with silver spacers - £7.95</div>
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Pincushion in grey felt with "PINS" embroidered in iridescent thread wot shows up rubbish in photographs! - £6.50</div>
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Detail of the above. Just to show it really IS hard to get a decent photo</div>
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Heart brooch, needle-felted in pure merino wool on swivel-set hat-pin - £5.00</div>
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Body Scrub</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjw383uW8hU7piZ-o5sv7tCAGN7SSjwr6JNpPn0rzYSEtAG1jFNbulez59_sSoIgeCsf9g-ix30gK0sU_wxSMJsDio2bqQCYzcVvZAqKOhqfFokuhvK6D3EzOY6czieCVXy1G238o8RCY/s1600/IMG_1947.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjw383uW8hU7piZ-o5sv7tCAGN7SSjwr6JNpPn0rzYSEtAG1jFNbulez59_sSoIgeCsf9g-ix30gK0sU_wxSMJsDio2bqQCYzcVvZAqKOhqfFokuhvK6D3EzOY6czieCVXy1G238o8RCY/s320/IMG_1947.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Salt scrub for hands and body made of pure extra virgin olive oil, gently cold-infused with home-grown rosemary. Ingredients of such high quality you could actually eat it - if it wasn't so gitting salty. I mean, yuck! But take a spoonful (using the hand carved coca-wood spoon which is very pleasingly smooth and tactile) and rub it into your hands and/or body, rinse off and pat dry to leave your skin silky soft and supple. And very clean. Even if you've been gardening. £7.50 for a tall jar.</div>
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Pennington's Fine Preserves - the edibles!</div>
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No preservatives in these preserves, other than British sugar. All other ingredients, wherever possible and unless otherwise specified, grown in my garden, veg patch or greenhouse. Just fruit and sugar with herbs and spices. Simply delicious.</div>
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A small selection of the very apples used in the preserves.</div>
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Small jars - £3.00</div>
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Tall jars - £5.00</div>
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The flavours:</div>
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Mint Jelly - tall & small - outrageous with roast lamb, in lamb sandwiches, or add a spoonful to your gravy.</div>
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Chili Jelly - tall - a delight with cheese or in chicken sandwiches, or a lovely surprise on toast.</div>
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Blackberry & Apple Compote - tall - great on toast, in porridge or rice pudding, or mix with apples and top with crumble for instant bramble crumble.</div>
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Blackberry & Apple Jelly - small - keep it simple, slap it on your toast. Or in your rice pud. Or - stop me now.</div>
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Spiced Jelly - small - delicious Christmassy jelly with cinnamon, ginger, allspice and the barest hint of cloves. I didn't, I must confess, grow the spices.</div>
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Sage & Apple Jelly - small - VERY grown up in a sausage sandwich, or with pork of any description. Really adds some oomph to your gravy with roast pork.</div>
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Apple & Ginger Jelly (ginger not grown by me) - small - I could eat this all day. Mainly on toast. </div>
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Rosemary & Red Wine Vinegar Jelly - small - another cracking one to serve with roast lamb. Either on the side, in your sandwiches the next day, or liberally spooned into your gravy. And I didn't, I'm afraid, make the vinegar. Something to think about, though, if I can ever spare the wine...</div>
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Crabapple Jelly - small - Crabapples locally sourced (thank you, Rachel)</div>
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Oh, and cordials in lovely tall bottles - photos to follow - £3.00 each</div>
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Lavender - great on ice-cream or in cocktails</div>
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Mint - likewise</div>
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Blackberry & Apple</div>
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Rhubarb & Apple</div>
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Rosehip - seriously FABULOUS source of vitamin C</div>
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Spiced Elderberry - delicious as a hot drink and soothing for sore throats</div>
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More things will follow in the next couple of days. I just need to photograph them! There will be hats, loads of necklaces, baby shoes, the much-mentioned and henceforth unseen iPad sleeves and phone covers... loads more to come. But if you've seen something and you think you'd like it, please let me know sooner rather than later. As I say, there's pretty much only one of anything, so if you wait until the rest of the available crafty things appear here, someone else may snap it up in the meantime.</div>
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email me on maz.pennington@gmail.com.</div>
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Payment, you say?! Ah, yes! Well, cash or cheque if you're close by, or PayPal if you're not.</div>
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Postage will entirely vary. I just couldn't charge as much to post a bracelet as to post 40 jars of jam, so I'll have to weigh your orders and let you know, but I can assure you that I will not be taking the Michael on the postage. We will just have to trust Her Majesty's Most Royal of Males - er - Mails - not to overcharge us, me old love pops.</div>
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Hope you've enjoyed shopping and you'll come back in the next couple of days for another squizz!</div>
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<br />Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-62300062584552832712012-10-30T06:00:00.001-07:002012-10-30T06:00:42.018-07:00Dare to bake breadI know, I know. Baking bread is either something you do, or you don't. But maybe it's something you'd like to do, but you don't think you have the time, or the skill?<br />
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Come here - closer - are you listening? I'm going to tell you a secret. Ready? Baking bread is easy. <br />
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Here's another one: It doesn't take very long. <br />
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Especially if you do this recipe coming up. It's for a basic focaccia. I have used spelt flour, as it's extremely easily digestible by everyone. I am gluten intolerant, but I can still just about get away with eating this. Spelt, in case you didn't know, is wheat in it's ancient, non-effed-about-with form. Whatever anyone says, there isn't a wheat which hasn't been genetically modified, because farmers have always, of course and justifiably so, made hybrids of this wheat with that grass to make longer stems for easier harvesting, or shorter, stouter stems for strength in windy areas etc etc and so forth. Hence modifying its genetics. Anyway - I digress.<br />
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So - this is done with spelt flour, but you can just as easily substitute with strong white bread flour, if you don't have issues with wheat.<br />
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You will require...<br />
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For the dough:<br />
500g Spelt Flour or Strong White Bread Flour<br />
Half a teaspoon of salt<br />
A teaspoon of dried yeast<br />
Two teaspooons of sugar<br />
300ml warm water<br />
One tablespoon of olive oil<br />
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For garnishing:<br />
Olive oil<br />
Sea salt<br />
Rosemary<br />
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In a large bowl, mix together the flour, salt, yeast and sugar. Add the warm water and, using a table knife, mix together. <br />
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Oil your hands and bring the dough together to form a ball, wiping it around the edges of the bowl to gather up any loose flour. Once all of the flour is mopped up into the dough, which should still be quite "craggy" at this stage, add the tablespoon of olive oil and squeeze and squelch the dough until all of the oil is absorbed. There is no doubt a more technical term for the above. Nerts.<br />
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Sprinkle some flour onto your (clean) work surface or board. Now over to Number 1 Daughter (she's 9 - if she can do it, so can you):<br />
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<br /><object width="320" height="266" class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://i.ytimg.com/vi/Y_6e2paiNeg/0.jpg"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Y_6e2paiNeg?version=3&f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Y_6e2paiNeg?version=3&f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
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As she says - stretch it out, fold it back, push it down, turn it through 90 degrees. Repeat until the dough is silky smooth.<br />
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Oil your bowl to let the dough rise without sticking and return said dough to bowl.<br />
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Cover with a tea towel and leave in a warmish place until doubled in size. This, depending on the dough, time of year, blah blah blah, may take an hour or two. You can leave it in the fridge to rise overnight, if you really need to, but I feel kind of sorry for the dough, all cold in the fridge. I am aware that this is not logical.<br />
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So that bit may seem like it's taking time. And it is. But you can go and do something else while it's doing it. You can go to the cinema, go out for a meal, read the cat the riot act for getting the clean laundry all furry again, or go and wallow in the bath with a nice cold glass of white wine. Good, eh?<br />
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Once the dough is twice the size, or thereabouts (don't get hung up on this - it won't matter if it's three times the size. Spelt dough tends to rise like crazy), help it out of the bowl and on to a floured surface, and knock it back.<br />
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Aha! Technical term alert!<br />
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That just means punch the air out of it. Easy. Just punch it or press down with your fingers until it is pretty flat. Again, I usually feel a bit sorry for the dough at this point.<br />
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Now grab a roasting pan or, preferably, a shallow stoneware dish, oil it liberally with olive oil and place the dough into it. Persuade, through the medium of stretching it with your fingers, the dough to cover the whole base of the dish. Now prod down, using fingers (or if you have pretty, manicured nails the likes of which I dream of possessing, use a porridge stick or the end of a wooden spoon) to create a series of hollows.<br />
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Drizzle the surface, again liberally, with good olive oil, sprinkle with oodles of sea salt and dot with frequent tufts of rosemary.<br />
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Cover with a cloth and allow to rise for half an hour, while you heat the oven to 250c.<br />
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Bake in the oven for ten minutes at 250, then turn down to 200 for a further ten minutes.<br />
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Remove from the oven and eat while still warm, dipped in olive oil and balsamic vinegar.<br />
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My lot ate this with indecent haste. I had to remove them bodily from the last small square in order to save some for dinner. Mind you, they were right - though still delicious a couple of hours later, it was better hot, straight from the oven. Which just goes to show, it's definitely one of those things which is worth making yourself, rather than buying it - even from the fabbiest deli or the most wholesome farmer's market.</div>
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Give it a go - baking makes you feel the BUSINESS!</div>
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<br />Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-60056504562593536052012-10-29T09:31:00.001-07:002012-10-30T03:32:09.520-07:00Divine Chocolate<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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One of the very nice things about writing a blog is that sometimes it gives you the chance to share information about wonderful things with people who you don't see every day, and whom you would otherwise forget to tell. This is just one such time.<br />
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I am very fortunate indeed that a very good friend of mine had the very good sense to start a chocolate company. I know, right?! Sounds pretty perfect - and then it gets better. <br />
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It's not just chocolate, it's extremely good chocolate - and you can trust my judgement on this. I grew up in Belgium, remember? <br />
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THEN, on top of that, it's not just extremely good chocolate - wait for it... - it's extremely good FOR you! Yes, healthy chocolate. Seriously. And it tastes divine. AND - you get to make it yourself! So you get a chocolatey-delicious smelling kitchen, you control what you put in, and you get to feel all sexy and Juliette-Binoche-like while you're doing it. It doesn't get much better than that.<br />
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Oh, hang on - it does. It's 100% ethically sourced, so it tastes good, it's good for you, and you can feel good about buying it. *Sigh of happiness*.<br />
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Here's a link to the website - I've linked you straight into the healthy bit, here - just take a look at what it can do for you: <a href="http://chocchick.com/pages/Raw-Chocolate-Benefits.html">Choc Chick Raw Chocolate Benefits</a><br />
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And here's another link, because there are more benefits: <a href="http://www.chocchick.com/pages.php?pageid=30">More Benefits</a><br />
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Oh, and while we're at it: <a href="http://chocchick.com/pages/Antioxidants-in-Raw-Cacao.html">Antioxidants in Raw Cacao</a><br />
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The reason, dear readers, for which you have to make the stuff yourself is that it is so pure and simple, containing no preserving agents and not containing oodles of sugar to act as a preservative. It has, once made, a very short shelf-life. The components, however, have very long shelf lives. Therefore the best way to get it out there and into peoples' bodies is by selling it in kit form. Tadaaaa! Enter Choc Chick!<br />
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I've been aware of Choc Chick's products, of course, since the company started. But Galia (founder of the company and the best friend a gal could have) has just brought out a new kit aimed at children. This is the Choc Chicos kit, and, being Fairy Godmother to my daughters, she sent us a kit through to try. <br />
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Here it is:<br />
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The kit arrived on Saturday morning, and as you can imagine, the girls jumped up and down. A lot. Usually, when we make "Galia's chocolate", as it is known in this house, we make it fearsomely strong and add things like cardamon, sea salt or chilli. Oh, or oodles of hot, fresh ginger. And hardly any sweetening agent. It's not THAT kid friendly, that way... Yes, I know. What a cruel mother I am. <br />
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So when the littles heard they were going to be able to make some chocolate themselves, and actually get to eat it - well, you can picture the scene.<br />
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Obviously, as I'm frequently out in the evenings, teaching Zumba, doing panto rehearsals, flogging kitchenware or whatever, and the girls are frequently at school during the day, it is easy to let the days fly by and find that planned activities are endlessly postponed. Character-building though this may be for growing minds (get used to disappointment, kid!), it's probably not that much of a good thing, taken in bulk. So I promised, rather rashly, that we would make the chocolate before the weekend was out.<br />
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Sunday evening came. We had finished our Sunday roast. Homework was done, pyjamas were on and His Royal Handsomeness mentioned that he might take His Royal Hairiness out for his evening constitutional. All was relaxed and sliding nicely towards a spot of Strictly Results on the sofa when a little voice said:<br />
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"Mummy, we haven't made the chocolate yet."<br />
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The nascent expletive was quickly swallowed, as I did swift parenty calculations: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9ead3;">Promise broken multiplied by disappointment equals death of hope in small children; </span>however,<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9ead3;"> previously tidy kitchen plus chocolatey children equals non-relaxed evening for mummies; anticipated bed-time minus duration of Strictly Results show minus time spent chocolate making equals at least forty minutes ago and time-machine is out of action....</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"> </span> But ultimately <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9ead3;">promise kept plus sense of achievement from making something delicious equals happy children</span> was the equation which won out.<br />
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Out came a saucepan and a bowl, a whisk and a measuring spoon, and our chocolate moulds. We do have special ones, but ice-cube trays will do just as well, or a shallow dish - anything you have to hand.<br />
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Hot water into the saucepan, saucepan on to low heat. Bowl into saucepan so that its base doesn't touch the water.<br />
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While I did this, I tasked the children with opening the box and reading the instructions, and from here on in, they did it themselves:<br />
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First in is the raw cacao butter. It's a pre-weighed amount, so it just all goes in.<br />
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It smells delicious - it doesn't taste nice, though!</div>
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Straight into the bowl with it. This is the only bit requiring a bit of patience. Move it around a bit, and watch it melt.</div>
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Next in is the raw cacao. It's measured in tablespoons, so it's easy for the children to do themselves. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBchqOptCnxg_rHHIXxdEVwkcdzbZqgVZcZqmMuYlfQl5K4fiPipobkVgJ9cXF4b55TQiwipSc_uv9yy5Lyshyh9WBqQq4HT7gES9uFYs_6UszMBevsA5b46x0qmRAEzfU4c1ixVjHY7E/s1600/IMG_1766.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBchqOptCnxg_rHHIXxdEVwkcdzbZqgVZcZqmMuYlfQl5K4fiPipobkVgJ9cXF4b55TQiwipSc_uv9yy5Lyshyh9WBqQq4HT7gES9uFYs_6UszMBevsA5b46x0qmRAEzfU4c1ixVjHY7E/s320/IMG_1766.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Looks wonderful - doesn't taste fabulous if you dip your finger in (well, I like it, but as previously explained, I am fairly hard-core in the unsweetened chocolate stakes)</div>
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Bit of stirring - we used a mini whisk because it works well - but we didn't whisk it as such:</div>
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Time to sweeten it - in with the Sweet Freedom. This is a fruit based sweetener with such a low GL that it's suitable for most diabetics. It's easily processed by the body, so it's a far better for children than normal sugar. </div>
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Somewhere along the way here, chocolate alchemy has taken place, and two things which are respectively tasteless and not all that tasty on their own combine with the Sweet Freedom and just become sublime.</div>
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At this point, you can add a bit of whatever you like, or leave it as it is. Vanilla extract is great, as it cons the tastebuds into thinking things are sweeter than they are, so you don't need so much of whatever you're using to sweeten a dish. Cinnamon does the same thing. Peppermint extract would be good, or orange zest - whatever you fancy, really. Nuts, raisins - everyone's a fruit and nutcase. Rice crispies... The only limit is your, or their, imagination.</div>
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I really wanted the girls to do this whole thing from start to finish, and I found that a really good way to transfer the chocolate from the bain marie to the moulds was using those syringes that come with children's Nurofen. Delivers the perfect dose for our mould size, too!</div>
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We left them on the side to set for five minutes, then put them in the fridge so they'd set a bit quicker.</div>
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Now, how long would you think it would take to make raw chocolates, from scratch, on a school night, with two children? I bet you'd think longer than half an hour? Ladies and gentlemen, it can be done, from box to fridge, including the 5 minutes setting on the side, in TWENTY MINUTES! </div>
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From box to mouth, an hour.</div>
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And I'm sorry I don't have any photos of how the chocolate looked when we turned it out. From mould to mouth, it turns out, is under a second, and we failed to put a chocolate down for long enough to photograph it. But I can assure you that they are glossy and gorgeous, and when you break them you get that oh-so-satisfying SNAP of really good quality chocolate.</div>
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It is rather satisfying that, although the instruction in the kit use the full amount of cacao butter, you are left with a nice quantity of raw cacao to play with. Also included in the kit are three cocoa beans. I'd never seen a cocoa bean - I don't think most people have. Anxious to waste neither the cacao nor the beans, I set my brain to thinking. The result - a very decadent (and not dairy-free) raw chocolate ice cream with nibs of crushed cocoa bean. Lordy - I can't tell you how good...</div>
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Is this a good time to announce to you that I have just been taken on as Choc Chick's new, official recipe writer? So you can look forward to more raw chocolate recipes to follow.</div>
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Here's the technical bit: Choc Chicos kits cost £9.95 + P&P, and they will P&P worldwide. I think it would be a strange child indeed who was not delighted to find a Choc Chicos kit under the tree this Christmas, or just as a birthday present any time. So much better than those kits where you just melt down a bar of Cadbury's and make it into gold coins, no? A nice little additional nugget of information is that Galia's daughter, Ella (aged 12), was in the room while Galia was discussing the trip to Ecuador which inspired the new kit. Galia was explaining the fabulous colours of the cocoa beans on the tree, the humming birds and other animals that she had seen. Ella sat down and drew these things. They now decorate the packaging of the Chicos kit. </div>
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For the adults out there, the non-kiddie-packaged kits range from the Starter Pack at £12.95 through Master, Standard, Party and right on up to Super at £54.95 - with which, my lovelies, you can make a whole heap of chocolate.</div>
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You can also buy the ingredients singly, and a small selection of moulds.</div>
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Here's the shop link: <a href="http://chocchick.com/categories/Buy-CHOC/">Choc Shop</a></div>
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So, look, guys. I can't eulogise enough about the quality of this chocolate. It is really, REALLY good. It is definitely chocolate all grown up and out there in the world, kicking some butt. It is also, however, utterly delicious to children. It's dairy free - my two are used to milk chocolate (yes, we keep the good stuff for ourselves - again, <i>naughty</i> parents), but they absolutely loved this. They couldn't believe I hadn't sneaked some extra ingredient or flavouring in there, because, unlike 'normal' chocolate which most of us are used to, this has a distinct and wonderful, pure chocolate flavour and a clean, almost fruity, taste. You get an intense chocolate hit from a small square, so you don't need to eat stacks to satisfy a passing craving. You can also feel good about bribing the kids with chocolate in the morning to get them to get up, have breakfast and get dressed for school without moaning.</div>
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Remember. All of the ingredients are raw and unprocessed, which is why Choc Chick chocolate is so very good for you (if you went to the link above, you will already know this, but it bears reiterating, or just iterating, if you haven't been and had a look yet). </div>
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Chocolate companies in general have been touting the new information regarding chocolate being good for you, for a while, now. What you need to know is that you don't get the same level of anti-oxidants and flavenols even from very good dark chocolate as you do from raw chocolate. The processing kills the goodies. You would have to eat so much of it to get the benefits that the benefits would be outweighed by the unhealthy stuff. But that's not the case with raw chocolate. It's better for you, and it tastes better. It's just so win/win it's beyond a joke.</div>
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Oh damn and hell. I am going to have to dig out the kit and make some more, right now.</div>
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<br />Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7985885236618453806.post-3896516213961236002012-08-22T03:00:00.001-07:002012-08-22T03:00:26.801-07:00Beech Leaf Gin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha5Tr8qcmBEes-zOQfl2SuSTj-CB29l522RQFJ98ym7oFmJFKnQ8aKPJyKCC3_KmSU4nJSmPX7az6hLBwmpBklTJb6fFBcwV4-l3c3nFKb53sp2re9VxI_C6iC26RrVUWyoiuy6FOAll8/s1600/P1040851.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha5Tr8qcmBEes-zOQfl2SuSTj-CB29l522RQFJ98ym7oFmJFKnQ8aKPJyKCC3_KmSU4nJSmPX7az6hLBwmpBklTJb6fFBcwV4-l3c3nFKb53sp2re9VxI_C6iC26RrVUWyoiuy6FOAll8/s1600/P1040851.jpg" /></a></div>
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At the end of our garden is a looooong beech hedge. The other side of the hedge, in our neighbours' garden, the hedge is beautifully clipped and neat - a professional job. On our side, it's neat up to as far as my arms can reach with extending loppers and/or shears. We tend to let the clippings go dry for a week or so (weather permitting), then burn them off, toasting marshmallows over the incinerator by way of a delicious by-product. This is inordinately helpful in persuading the children to help us gather the clippings, by the way.</div>
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However, it all did seem rather wasteful to me this year, with the result that I did a little research into what, if anything, could be done with young beech leaves. Imagine my joy to find, in Richard Mabey's classic "Food For Free", a recipe for what he calls "Beech Leaf Noyau". Well, Noyau is traditionally made with nuts, plus which it's the kind of word which makes people go "whaaaaa?", and hence makes you look insufferably smug, so let's just call a spade a spade, eh? Agreed? Okay - Beech Leaf Gin it is!</div>
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Further investigation revealed that Pam Corbin had also found Richard Mabey's recipe. Richard's recipe was very loose, and Pam's was more precise. However, I found a combination of the two produced this.</div>
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Find a large jug or vase, and pack as full as you can with new beech leaves. These should still be that gorgeous, fresh, acid green of the very early leaves.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia9oP4EecOrmWpa4rk1zsqQlaNoVjssJKiO2FcGwXepN1-K71_woJqb9Wh8yki1L4B9VMWjF1l-PVLvgyYjgJxjY9yXuDkuQsI8MPfK_Gmz9NRRT92lpzVFWYiLu9NaKsWAQwc8wsIsdY/s1600/P1040518.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia9oP4EecOrmWpa4rk1zsqQlaNoVjssJKiO2FcGwXepN1-K71_woJqb9Wh8yki1L4B9VMWjF1l-PVLvgyYjgJxjY9yXuDkuQsI8MPfK_Gmz9NRRT92lpzVFWYiLu9NaKsWAQwc8wsIsdY/s320/P1040518.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Pack the leaves down nice and tightly:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYJWUQ6UbeheFpolLjiXjYcSdA-ofsGUxPoJMg6nA4ZxyFs6_7MhW6oAtw_9QSWgvsni_t9-yk5b2TUjuXRP2G9GgoeTj74QjymtzFvnhoR468SNqPXaZi-5cBYBJg3xTl9zbJD1zfXz0/s1600/P1040517.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYJWUQ6UbeheFpolLjiXjYcSdA-ofsGUxPoJMg6nA4ZxyFs6_7MhW6oAtw_9QSWgvsni_t9-yk5b2TUjuXRP2G9GgoeTj74QjymtzFvnhoR468SNqPXaZi-5cBYBJg3xTl9zbJD1zfXz0/s320/P1040517.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Cover with gin and weigh down to ensure that none of the leaves stay above the surface, or they will oxidise. I put a layer of clingfilm over the surface and weighed down with a plate:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4OH-wcTfaOajxAjeghn_ms3U4b-8zO5gJ_DJjjDF_EpHHOXSoSTJ3qU-P1b7h9uOFWexUgIV3Oa1_3BwUuMJOOKpto4W7zO-fNVs39Kq7nO077q_TWGMK8eccMRAnAKvbeCOMecC44mI/s1600/P1040519.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4OH-wcTfaOajxAjeghn_ms3U4b-8zO5gJ_DJjjDF_EpHHOXSoSTJ3qU-P1b7h9uOFWexUgIV3Oa1_3BwUuMJOOKpto4W7zO-fNVs39Kq7nO077q_TWGMK8eccMRAnAKvbeCOMecC44mI/s320/P1040519.jpg" width="276" /></a></div>
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I found I needed a lot more gin than expected. Oh, and as always when making things into gin - use cheap gin! You do feel a total dipso leaving Asda with a trolley full of Smart Price gin, but it is the best stuff to work with. Bombay Sapphire is delicious, but it has too much flavour of its own and doesn't do anything for your own creations.</div>
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Leave the gin to steep for 7 to 10 days, then strain through a jelly bag or muslin:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTcn5ApbJA1I2r9CHNOHCcY1GIMUW3541WBnqN8tdW9o7aPFY3X9cgg9jssSzuSo5KPcwTAlIlOKWb6YOA2LTyKibIoaB_-2o6ZQYHxEjsAme6Tbk4mhFjHYJoIuqvNma9OSVSBZNldJI/s1600/P1040831.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTcn5ApbJA1I2r9CHNOHCcY1GIMUW3541WBnqN8tdW9o7aPFY3X9cgg9jssSzuSo5KPcwTAlIlOKWb6YOA2LTyKibIoaB_-2o6ZQYHxEjsAme6Tbk4mhFjHYJoIuqvNma9OSVSBZNldJI/s320/P1040831.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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- you may have to do this in stages as the unpacked leaves take up more space than you could possibly anticipate.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcm0ybRntsQBoUJmEMPcARjZAC4UAt7JeJTN8ySXqPiuTCXOgqM68i-XE_mhb-jkI4cz7yrSImzLEg8hXc79V3USdzvAhFQddcAjS5nQGBHym8Id7qHncLdD6-rmszuzcgDQSHPIBYrXw/s1600/P1040829.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcm0ybRntsQBoUJmEMPcARjZAC4UAt7JeJTN8ySXqPiuTCXOgqM68i-XE_mhb-jkI4cz7yrSImzLEg8hXc79V3USdzvAhFQddcAjS5nQGBHym8Id7qHncLdD6-rmszuzcgDQSHPIBYrXw/s320/P1040829.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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For each 500ml of gin, place 250ml water and 300g granulated sugar into a saucepan, and heat until the sugar is dissolved. Allow to cool completely then add the gin. DEFINITELY allow it to cool completely, or the alcohol will evaporate, and we don't want that, do we?!</div>
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Add a dash or so of brandy and pour into sterilised bottles, together with a leaf or two, just for decoration.</div>
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Use within two years.</div>
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<br />Mazbohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01563454562462459594noreply@blogger.com0