The year of the squeeze-box

Ian is such a copy-cat. I bought my Italian piano accordion on Trade Me just before Christmas. Ian bought his gadget, called the squeeze-box, several months later.

Each squeeze-box has its plusses and minusses.

Mine reliably makes noise - we never have to reboot the media server or muck about while it looks for ip addresses...

His doesn't smell musty... well, why should it? It didn't arrive in an antique and very dodgy suitcase.

You might say that when his makes noise, it's gorgeous in all its digital clarity. Claudia would say that when mine makes noise, it's hideous. I think she's being harsh - it takes time to master! But it sure is loud, I have to agree. And it doesn't serve up radio stations from Paris and the US.

Still, I cling to the vision of being able to lead the sing-along at the beach, or on the house-boat. Ian will only be able to use his machine in this way if he's organised a satellite connection to his media server. I suppose it's only a matter of time; and yet - for reliability - I choose mine any day.

Neighbour red in tooth and claw

I proffered the hand of friendship yesterday, only to withdraw with a bleeding stump. 'Twas like this. I thought it would be a good idea, and rather fun, to meet the parents of my son George's pals. Some of them I already know, but there are loads I don't know at all. So my plan was, and remains (I think), to get together for a "getting to know you" picnic, so the parents can gang up on the children and win the battle of parenting stroppy teens.

So George texted his friend, who for the purposes of this blog, we will call "Susie", and asked her mum to call me. At 9:40 pm yesterday, the father phoned. Ian answered and explained his understanding of the plan and its purpose, and then passed the father on to me. "I don't want to offend you" he said, "but we have 8 children and we're very choosy about our activities". I explained that it wasn't a big deal but we thought it would be nice to know the parents of our children's friends. "There's no point really; now that "Susie" is moving into her senior years at high school she won't be socialising - she'll be focussing on her academic progress".

Yeah, right.

There's a rumour going around that another of their daughters has eloped with someone to Aussie. Assuming that it's true, do we find this surprising?

Making money

I've been very entrepreneurial lately, and have made enough money renting Ma and Pa's bach to pay the bills and cover some minor improvements. I have to concede, though, that the recent big improvements (I can't keep track of older improvements) are entirely thanks to the generosity of certain parties:

Robyn, for spring-cleaning and helping me to de-clutter
Edwina and Ian - beds and all sorts of furniture and other useful objets
Helen and Tim - bunks
Robyn and Nige - a decent telly and cabinet to hide it (from Mum) in
Raewyn - a water filter to end all water filters - and with luck and sufficient water pressure - to make the water potable
Phil and Kay - a sexy lounge suite complete with lazyboy recliners x 2
Craig - cleaning of aforementioned suite
Julia - expertise designing the kitchen
Imogen - for expert family-meeting-chairing
All Dad's friends who have wired things and generally been jolly useful
etc. etc.

But the Oscar goes to Ma and Pa, who had the foresight to buy a property and build and maintain a building thereon! doing endless jobs around the place and spending vast sums so that their dreadful children and their friends could benefit...

but not just us!! check out Paddy's Pad and see how others are in there doing that :-)

Two dykes and a stopbank

The emptiness of our nest was brought forcibly home to me yesterday, when we went for a picnic and I only needed to make sandwiches for Ian, Janet, and me. Teenagers have their own agenda; sad but true!

We went to the Ashley River, and drove along the stopbank until we reached number xx (I could tell you but then I'd have to kill you) groyne. The pozzie was magic, the sun relentless, and the willows accommodating. We joined our neighbours, who have expert knowledge of the best holes, and swam in the balmy waters. Ian went on his usual intrepid exploring mission across the river bed. Janet was content to watch the action, although she fretted a bit about the suitability of the branch which supported the rope swing. Rightly so; I suspect that sometime soon, someone over 30 kg will drop gracefully in to the gently flowing water, and then be topped off by the branch itself...

The dykes were enjoying a beer.

It was funny, like a dog eating sausages

I've pinched my title from Ian Whybrow, because it's a good one that often flashes through my mind at inappropriate times. Yesterday I thought it was funny when George climbed onto the biscuit, fully dressed, and floated a short way, while standing, out into the lake; then Ian tugged the rope and George went flying straight off. Of course, when it transpired that his brand-new mobile phone was in his pocket at the time, we all stopped laughing rather abruptly.

I'm trying to remember whether anything else has happened since we arrived here, that's made any of us crack up. Time passes in a way that's hard to describe, when we're on holiday. It seems to dribble past in small amounts, but when you think back, you realise you've read three novels, done 20 sudoku and 14 crosswords, watched 10 movies, and cooked umpteen bloody meals.

There was a particularly good pun cracked by yours truly about 4 nights ago, but the explanatory scene-setting required to share it will kill it stone dead. You'll just have to take my word for it, that it was small and perfectly formed, and used a delightfully old-fashioned word. I'm prepared to share it with anyone who's watched Wind in the Willows (the recent version with real people). Not that I'll need to, as no-one reads this blog!

Well, now I'm going in search of real laughs with Dylan Moran.... and by the way, George's phone dried out.

Some of my best friends don't cook

But for those that do, I would like to say "thank you". I've often wondered why I love food so much, but as my orbit (among other things) has expanded, I find that others share my transports of delight over fresh artichokes, new season's broad beans, and other simple pleasures of this sort.

It all started with my Mama, who had strict rules about food. The main one was "never cook the same meal twice within a month". I can remember being shocked at primary school to discover that a dear friend of mine had a fixed menu that rotated each WEEK! She knew exactly when she'd have mince, F and Cs, sausages and so on. Better than starving - but only just.

We had enormous variety - fresh lamb sweetbreads, toad-in-the-hole, whole sole, rabbit casserole, roast lamb/hogget/pork; I could go on and on - and vegetables and fruit either grown in the home garden or bartered from local market gardeners. Always a pudding - and if it was just ice cream there would be stewed fruit presented with it as a "package deal" (much to my disgust - especially if it was stewed pears).

What mother, or father come to that, has the time these days for all that meal planning and preparation? My children don't get anything like the same variety as I did. I bet they wouldn't thank me if I suddenly started serving up a wild and wonderful menu, either; they're a fussy lot. But every now and then they discover something that I should have fed them long ago - I love to see them hoovering up good food with joy.

So to friends who cook for me - thank you! and to those who don't - it's never too late to start! Ha ha!

So long, Book Book

Well, she was gorgeous and gave us eggs, but Book Book has forsaken us, and for over a week I have gathered no eggs and heard no clucks. I just hope she's moved on to another safe house.

Life sans Book Book does not lack excitement, however. On Sunday I was so busy trying to disengage a small arachnid from the silk entwined around my kebab stick, that I tipped most of the rest of my dinner onto the floor of the sitting room. It was a chicken kebab. Maybe my dinner saboteur was a pal of Book Book's?

I'm proud to have gardened earnestly this week. At the risk of sounding like the ultimate egoist, I'm really wondering whether my efforts at the weekend explain the forecast, which is for frosts and snow tonight. It's November, for heaven's sake! If we can't plant the beans now, when the hell can we plant 'em?