Nothing important

Gosh, my mobile phone has returned to life. Sasha had it in the bath, and by the time I got to it it had been thoroughly dunked and was vibrating away in a panic. I took it to bits and left it out in the sun for a day (this was during the last heatwave). The screen dried out quite remarkably - you could see the water inside disappearing - and it ended up looking normal, but when I powered it up none of the buttons worked. I left it to live in the airing cupboard, and it's been there for a month or two. Turned it on again just for the hell of it, and ta-da! It lives!

In a way, it's a pity, as I hated the operating system so much I was quite glad to see the back of it. But of course as soon as I tried other phones I hated them more. And Windows Mobile - what can you say except Aaaaaarrrrgggghhhhh?

Did you know that the motto for the Boys' Brigade is 'Sure and Steadfast', but the motto for the Girls' Brigade (proud owners of one of the most hideous logos you will ever see) is 'Seek Serve & Follow'? The aims for the two sexes are polarised too. Remarkable.

I've been quiet since we came back from New York. Partly because there's been so much to do, with the music festival and work and The Voice (Cambridge NCT magazine) and all, and partly because I meant to write up New York before doing anything else, which was of course hopeless. But also because I've discovered iPlayer. And Doctor Who. It's so perfect for those who don't own televisions: your favourite programmes and no licence fee to pay! I started with the usual crush on David Tennant - sooo cute, and the lovely Scottish accent when he's off duty adds a frisson - but have transferred my affections to Russell T Davies (yes, I'm aware of the very obvious drawback here), who is of course the brains behind the revival but is also lots and lots of fun. A Welsh Joss Whedon. He shoots to the top of our dream dinner-party guest list, possibly even ousting Stephen Fry, who (whom?) I seriously believe to be vastly over-rated.

All this time and I don't have *anything* momentous to say?

The gesture of love

So, here's a question for you: which product has the tagline 'the gesture of love you can trust'? So many, many answers. But I'll bet any amount you won't guess.

I've been writing this dratted blog in my head for some time but not actually getting as far as typing it. Life has been hectic: lots of work on, switching days and pitching for new business, and the Cambridge NCT magazine to lay out again. Fifty-six pages, which takes a fair amount of time. It's quite fun, but I'm beginning to wonder...

A friend emailed to ask if I was going to review the BBC Ballet Shoes. Which was rather flattering, as is the fact that someone actually reads this stuff! There's glory for you. We're both Streatfeild fans - and Jill, I still have your copy of Saplings... I missed the broadcast but saw it all on iPlayer, which had launched shortly before. I also found an article by the person who'd written the adaptation, in which she avowed that she'd adored the book as a child and had been determined to secure the job so as not to change a thing and prevent anyone else changing it.

Given all that protestation, it was a bit of a shock to find Garnie apparently dying of TB and falling for a dashing Mr Simpson -- Mrs Simpson having been done away with. But then Mrs Simpson always gets written out, not having enough lines to make the actress worth the money.

The real problems, I thought, were actually the ones you get through knowing a book too well (and not being properly edited). Things didn't get properly explained: why is Sylvia called Garnie half the time, and what does GUM mean (I don't think he was ever referred to as Great Uncle Matthew)? (And by the way, does anyone believe that Richard Griffiths would be capable of walking any distance to find a fossil? He seems barely mobile these days.) On the larger scale, though, because the focus was on incident not on daily life, there was so sense of the Fossils actually practising: in the book, it's the relentless grind of their daily lives that's emphasised. 'The Fossils became some of the busiest children in London.' They work.

On the other hand, there was also the odd lapse of comprehension. I'm with everyone who thought Victoria Wood's wig was just ghastly, but part of the reason was that it was so unsuitable for the character. Nana is nothing if not pragmatic. Is she really going to have a hairstyle that requires her to thread clips all the way through the stuff every night, and then spend all day flicking the ends out of her eyes? I don't think so. The smart outfits seemed all wrong, too, especially those high-heeled lace-ups. Remember Pauline asking,
' "Have you pretty feet, Nana?" She looked down at Nana's square-toed black shoes which she always wore.' Nana is not glamorous.

The bit that made me really squawk, though, was Petrova washing Mr Simpson's car in her Mustard-seed costume. Remember the hoo-hah when Pauline gets above herself acting Alice in Wonderland? What precipitates the showdown is Pauline going off-stage without her wrap. The wrap is an overall that you wear so that your stage costume is protected every moment you're not on stage in it. My goodness, you wouldn't be allowed to go outdoors in it, let alone picking up an oily rag and polishing a car bonnet. That was a very odd lapse.

The biggest blank, I think, was that I didn't get any sense of the dedication of the girls: Pauline's vocation for acting, or Posy's virtuosity. Petrova's boredom and frustration they could do, but they really missed the commitment, the work, the gaining of professionalism: which is what made, and continues to make, the book special. It's not about daydreams and fantasies: it's about hard graft. All the Angelina Ballerina drivel that's about now entirely ignores the fact that nobody, nobody attains proficiency in this kind of thing without a lot of bloody hard work.

And finally.... bet you didn't guess. The picture showed someone in bed with a cat. The ad was for Frontline, which is a catflea repellent that's semi-permanent: you dot liquid of the back of the cat's neck. But the gesture of love you can trust? I can't think of any explanation except real, deranged weirdness.

Bath time

I've been spending every waking sunny hour in the garden, digging up nettles before they get going -- most years they're eight feet high before you can blink. We've managed to clear two squares of (potential) vegetable patch and our prospective asparagus bed, so that's rather fine. The sun has now gone in again, so I'm working on the Cambridge NCT magazine -- fifty pages every quarter, which I design in Quark XPress. It's been fun up till now, but just today feels a bit of a slog.

Anyway, I've been meaning for ages to write about our weekend in Bath, back in January. We booked the train tickets and the hotel online. Both sites gave confirmation screens; neither actually put through the purchase. Rotten usability. Luckily I was suspicious that thetrainline.com hadn't emailed me, so I phoned them. And fortuitously, the hotel had a small room that was obviously kept for emergencies, so we weren't thrown onto the streets.

We had a few interesting meals. First was lunch in the Hole in the Wall, which according to A has been around for ever. This was pretty good but not stunning. the service was odd: it seemed to be communal, with everyone in charge of everything, which in practice meant nobody noticed if you'd been sitting with the menu for twenty minutes. In contrast, the Olive Tree had a rigid hierarchy, with one person in charge of lots of powerless minions, some of whom didn't speak English. She was rushed off her feet, so the end effect was much the same. Fabulous food, though, even the trad Sunday roast -- and it's unusual to get a special Sunday lunch menu.

For dinner, we'd tried the trendy new Marlborough Arms but couldn't get in, though they were very nice about this: none of the nuances of tone that some people can get into the question "Have you booked?". So we ended up at Bistro Papillon, which was delightful. Very French, so the food was robustly lovely, the wine was excellent and the staff were completely charming: everyone with complete autonomy to be nice to you -- and they were really sweet to Sasha. I meant to write a glowing review of the food there but by now only have the haziest memories.

Oh -- and take no notice of the woman in Tourist Information who thinks it's only seven miles along the towpath to the next village. She is sooo wrong. We walked for hours, and it was lovely but eventually dark and cold. Still, we got that immensely smug feeling particular to an English climate that we'd made the most of a sunny day and didn't have to mind the next day being vile.

True love

"Lawyers haven't been this popular since

Robespierre slaughtered half of France."

Oh my: I love Joni Mitchell.

What a nice chap!

He handed Sasha back to me on the train back from London tonight as the infant was zapping off through the carriage. Then he got off at Whittlesford,and offered to help me carry the pushchair over the bridge -- I'd already picked it up and started, so I said I was fine and explained how it's sometimes harder with two people (the baby tends to get tipped out, which is really A Bad Thing). Then I set off for Sawston and about five minutes later he passed me in his car and pulled in to see if I wanted a lift. He said something like "I feel so sorry for you!" so I had to explain that my partner had offered me a lift but I'd turned him down, because I wanted to walk. It was a beautiful night, with lots of stars visible, and Sasha needed to wind down after a busy day in London anyway. But it did seem a little sad that someone couldn't quite believe that I'd want to walk a couple of miles on a nice night. And, conversely, very cheering that people are so helpful and concerned. Having a baby definitely lets you see some of the best of human nature.

One small step for a baby...

... was made in front of witnesses yesterday. Turned out all the child needed as an incentive was a room full of people: five mothers and babies at my NCT morning, all applauding. Later that day we walked and kicked a Laphraoig tin (that's the tin the bottle comes in) around the room.

Any ideas for creative uses of a Laphraoig tin once the infant tires of it? Have used them in the past to store knitting needles (but that was a short phase as I don't like activities that prevent me reading) and bicycle spokes (but I never break them, so it was pointless). They seem so potentially useful, but perhaps it's entirely illusory.

The pushchair, which I've been Facebooking about (oh the strain of a multimedia existence) is a triumph. I got it on eBay. It's a very functional thing indeed: an American three-wheeler that's about ten years old: a chassis, three wheels and a canvas sling to put the baby in. I've made a cosytoes (I think this really is a word, you know - it's the name of the thing that keeps the baby warm) out of the raincover, which was missing its frame, and a baby sleeping bag; and a luggage carrier out of an old metal supermarket basket strapped on with some bits from an old rucksack. Lots of fun. And it works!

Flat-out baby

We tried an experiment yesterday and got Sasha to bed at 6pm. We'd all gone swimming -- the big kids too -- and everyone was usefully worn out. Sash had a bottle and went to sleep in the car, and was then carefully conveyed to the cot when we got back. Didn't seem to wake up any earlier than usual. We got up at nine, had a bath and played for an hour or so, then had breakfast. Sasha then downed two whole Weetabixes in the time it's taken me to eat a piece of toast, but has now konked out, snoring with head on table. Hmm, interesting.

A has been requesting a new blog entry as he's got me on his home page -- awww -- which means he gets the Ken Dodd song on the brain every morning [after seeing the title, which was 'the greatest gift that I possess']. As is the usual way of things, as soon as I'd posted about being so happy, I got onto a downward slide; partly Christmas, I think: it always seems to be an anti-climax. Perhaps it's because you remember the excitement from childhood, and can never match it as an adult? Oh well. I seem to be better now. Anyway, I was reflecting that 'If you're happy and you know it isn't such a daft summary after all, since knowing you're happy is the essence of the thing: it's all about definitions after all.

The sun is shining and the baby is asleep: I'm going to go and dig up nettles. Huzzah!