conkers, cakes and whirlwind romance

Have managed a few layouts this week:

Week 36 (I think) of SLYMI: Scrap the magic. I have scrapped the first photo ever taken of Mark and I, on our wedding day, seven weeks after our first kiss. Hah! No lengthy engagement there. I quote Billy Crystal (When Harry Met Sally) 'when you realise you've met the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, you want the rest of your life to start rightaway'. Also, I believe the attitudes you have going into a second marriage are more certain and mature than a first (yes, yes, I appreciate there are exceptions), but I think a second marriage has greater chance of success these days.

Forgive my slapdash sticking down of the elements in this layout, I will tidy it up before it is filed away into my dusty tomes....

This one was made mostly from stash I got from a kit swap - bright, bold and not the sort of things I would buy, so pleased with it:

And this one is for this weeks SLYMI, Scrap in Autumn colours. This is our annual conker jaunt to the local park, where we get loads of conkers, play about twice and then they sit and shrivel up in a cobwebby corner. A similar fate to everything else in this house ha ha.

Cooked these brownies over the weekend:

They were dead easy, no melting of chocolate was involved and they are supposedly 82 calories each. I guess the fat content is above the allotted 5%, but they were incredibly gooey and quick and cheap too.

it's not Lloret is it.......

Remembered a little holiday experience which I will share with you. Are you sitting comfortably....

We decided to be a little adventurous this holiday and catch the bus somewhere - wa-heyyyy! (we'd both forgotten our driving licences and couldn't hire a car actually...) We were both kacking it a bit in case we couldn't make ourselves understood to the bus driver, which is a bit crap since I can speak spanish (fairly ok) and in any case just mumbling our destination should have been sufficient, and so we boarded the bus outside the hotel and trundled off in air-conditioned comfort to Fornells (a pretty little harbour apparently). The first time the bus stopped, we assumed ourselves to be at our chosen destination and jumped off in a panic with everyone else. It became apparent after walking aimlessly around a (very pretty) housing estate for half an hour that we had NOT chosen the correct bus stop and were not even in Fornells. How embarrassing. We eventually ended up back at the very same bus stop to await the next bus.

Waiting there too were two middle-aged over-tanned Brits (you could tell they were Brits before they even opened their mouths, sadly - vests, shorts and gold flip flops for her, trainers for him,) and when they did speak - by 'eck it were funny. They were from 'up north' - sorry, my regional accent definitions are a little sketchy between Bristol and Newcastle, but it was a very strong accent, and they had also cocked up with the getting off the bus thing. They were also trying to get to Fornells. Not for the pretty harbour, but just 'to get some fags'. This had me giggling because it sounded so, well, bad! As we waited, we, as Brits, started bemoaning the length of time the bus was taking. Mrs gold flip-flops then said, with sadness, 'well, it's not quite Magalluf is it....' at this point I think I laughed out loud, as this must be just one of the most crass things any tourist can say - ever. I was reminded of Shirley Valentine (the film) where the up-northerners all gather together moaning about the basic conditions of their pretty Greek holiday island and one remarks; 'thing is, I could like Greece - if it were more like Spain....'

Anyway, to top off this lovely day trip out, Fornells turned out to be a bit dull. Oliver had a little swim to cool off in his pants, but then his shorts blew into the water meaning he had to make the journey back on the bus naked and swathed in my shirt. He refers to the trip as the worst day of his life. A bit strong, but I know where he's coming from.

This is Oliver not enjoying the walk round the housing estate:

This is Oliver not enjoying wearing my shirt:

This is the Mark and Oliver waiting on the quay for the bus to escape the delights of Fornells:

Oh, and I did the Docs a couple of days ago. Went pretty much as expected. She has prescribed a course of anti-depressants which I have no problem with taking, and my responses to her questions indicate a raised level of anxiety rather than any deep-seated depression, which is good. I asked to be referred on to speak to a counsellor of some sort so I can start to sort out my overreaction to certain situations and I have an appointment at the end of October. All quiet on the western front....

trickling but not yet flowing...

....creative juices that is. I have finally managed to produce something crafty, my re-make of week 33 SLYMI, scrap a square within a square:

and week 37 (scrap with metal):


Not much else to report - I am not feeling caustic or witty enough to carp about anything this morning.....

sorry, it's a no-pic post

Would have to say in all honesty that the last couple of weeks have been a real crafting low spot. True, one of those weeks was spent abroad, having a nervous breakdown, but since back I have spent quite a few hours sat at my desk indulging in a spot of paper shuffling and watching DVDs. Talk about the Mojo desertion.... Anyhoo, this weeks SLYMI should be up, and now I have a total of 4 to catch up with (the most recent three and one I was never happy with which I want to re-do). Will keep you posted with my crafty outpourings. (did I ever outpour??)


The Tabba-Poppy saga continues, with Tabba turning up to gobble her food, hiss with menace at Poppy (ever-braver and going to get it in a minute) and then paw in desperation at the door to escape once more into the great outdoors. At night Poppy is shut away (in great comfort I might add) so Tabba can come in and sleep in peace as she always has, but Poppy meows with such feeling that Tabba hears her, and hisses at the dining room door on the way past. There is a wealth of meaning in that hiss. I imagine in cat language it may translate to: 'ha ha you're in that room all alone and I'm sleeping on the human's bed again. Hear my hiss O small and puny one and heed my bared teeth....' Or something along those lines.

I'll share a little holiday tale with you. Whilst semi-dozing under cerulean blue skies one morning last week, warm sand trickling through my fingertips, tension easing with every passing moment, the word 'Mum' came cutting through the MP3 player and the soothing whispers of Bryan Ferry with his rhythm of rhyming guitars. I squeezed open one eye to find Oliver, stood over me, naked complaining of sand in the end of his winky and holding said member in a very disgruntled fashion at virtually my eye level. Now that's a rude awakening if ever I had one....

Great excitement in Exeter tomorrow - Toys R Us opens. Does life get any better I ask myself.

Hello Poppy

Here is Poppy, our new kitten. She is very adorable, affectionate and a real time-bandit. Tabba hates her and has growled and hissed with such evilness that I shut Poppy away overnight, to prevent her having her throat ripped out while we sleep. Hopefully Tab will get used to her.....

Seemingly, Susan Boyle (aka SuBo - dontcha just hate that?) is releasing a track which is a cover of a Stones tune - Wild Horses. Never heard of it, but a tune in on this link seems like it's a pretty nice song....

For those charting my mental progress, I have booked a Doc appointment and should be spilling my guts to her unfortunate ears next week lol.

what is WRONG with me???? (it's a rhetoric question)

Well, back this morning from a week in Menorca, and I have never been so glad to get home. It was a very lovely place, lovely scenery around the hotel and on top of a gorgeous sandy beach with clear, shallow waters, Mark and Oliver were (as always) lovely to be with and yet all the time, my anxiety levels rise and rise until I think I am going to either a) have a panic attack or b) collapse in floods of tears until I feel better. I have been like this since my first holiday abroad in July 1988. I hated it and wept loads until I came home. The only holidays I have had when I didn't feel on the verge of a nervous breakdown have been ones where I have stayed in proper 'homes' and been part of 'normal life'.

Poor Mark and Oliver. I am so wrapped up in the panic and anxiety of not enjoying my holiday, that I ineveitably end up miserable and ruining things for them. Hopefully Oliver is too young to realise that his mother is a nutter, and Mark deserves better. Since I have endured these horrible feelings for so long whilst on holiday, enough is enough. I am going to the Docs and I am asking her to get me in to see a counsellor. Surely being this loopy on holiday qualifies for some sort of help..... think my problems are a control issue anyway, I feel better at home, in control of my little world.....

Anyway, now 2 weeks behind with SLYMI so will chill over that, and meanwhile, here are some pics from my holiday, which had it's little highs despite all my unwitting attempts to sabotage my own happiness....

'childhood....

...has no forebodings; but then, it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow.' The Mill on the Floss, George Eliot.

Here is the finished layout:

I will admit, probably a little rushed - I am amid pre-hol packing/panic, but am fairly pleased with the outcome.

Tonight, planned in my la-la land of make-believe, was going to be relaxed packing but Mark managed to find a baby pigeon on the way home (yes dear reader, Pigeons are his latest thing) and so I have spent a goodly hour or so soothing ruffled feathers (literally) and tending to baby pidgy's needs. My patience, thin to begin with, is now nearly transparent and Oliver is not that well either, coughing and seeming to be 'not well'.

Must go - excessive overload of shitty jobs beckons.....