Return of the flip-flop.

Welcome to the final instalment of the my related trilogy, unless like the good Mr Lucas, I decide to cash in with some prequels. This episode takes place in London, whilst hubby and I stole away for a weekend to celebrate his big 30th birthday. Once more I had the serious dilema of packing sensible attire and once more I thought I had done well. Despite this adventure taking place in May the weather as I packed my things was decidedly British, cold, wet and grey. So I erred on the side of caution and packed jeans, long sleeve tops and a pair of sturdy and sensible walking boots. Hubby is not a fan of the tube and I knew that the majority of the weekend would involve walking rather than riding.

On the first day we set off to take in the sights. We walked from my uncles rather fab flat at Tower Bridge where we were staying, along the length of the Thames and eventually out to Buckingham Palace. It took hours! However the weather had changed and the sun was starting to shine and even I had to admit that it was rather nice to stroll hand in hand in the sunshine.

On the second day we were shocked to see that the weather had maintained it's warmth and after a day of walking in boots I couldn't wait to swap into comfy flip-flops and a sun-dress (hey, just because I packed sensible doesn't me I didn't slip in a few frivolities). Once more we took to the streets and started a hike across London, however after a few minutes we noticed a slight malfunction. The satisfying sound of flip-flop, flip-flop, flip-flop had been replaced with a somewhat worrying flip-flap, flip-flap, flip-flap. One of my flip-flops was dangerous close to loosing it's sole (not soul as in taken by the devil, however I am convinced there is something devilish about the string of disasters befalling my shoes). Only hanging on by a thread, the sole of my flip-flop was earning me some curious looks as we walked the pavements and it mocked me with it's irregular tone.

After a few blocks of this I decided to brave it and walk bare foot. This worked well on the smooth-paved Thame-side pavement, but was decidedly more uncomfortable on the cobbled underpasses. Undeterred however I had another brain-wave. Ripping the offending sole from the flip flip I was able to wear it again, albeit it was like walking on cardboard but at least to the unobservant passer-by it looked like I was wearing two matching flip-flops. So we continued until we were able to find a shop selling shoes. "Well if you insist, I guess I could let you buy me a new pair of shoes..."

The flip-flop strikes back.

Last week I posted my first commentary on a series of shoe disasters. Welcome to the second part of the trilogy....the flip-flop strikes back. This episode takes part in a land far, far away, AKA as Norfolk. Now this might not seem like the deepest abyss of the Dagobah system but for those who know hubby and I well, you will know that we aren't exactly the jet setting type. Anyway Norfolk sets the scene for our first camping experience and is the location of my second shoe related adventure.

Now amongst close friends I am not known for my most sensible of wardrobe choices, from tiny tops that inspire ice-cube basketball (that comment will make sense to my friends the Murphords) to trousers that unzip down the length of them (no, I don't know what I was thinking either). Anywho, the point is I can be slightly impractical when it comes to my clothing choices and so I was determined to restrain myself at least to a certain degree (of moral decency) whilst camping with friends.

I am bound to post more on the camping experience on another blog so I'll cut straight to the point and discuss footwear. I packed trainers and flip flops and they served me well. From sturdy trainers perfect for kicking a football around to water-resistant flip-flops for the morning shower run, I was suited and booted to perfection. That is until we took a little outing to the local beach.

Proud of my flip-flopped semi-casual look I was happy to splash around in the sea with the rest of the gang. Sadly it was at this point that I realised that although water-resistant my flip-flops were not immune to great big sodding waves. Yes, a rather large wave splashed against me, stole my flip-flop and carried it off into deeper waters. Not to be perturbed, myself and two of the gents of the gang waded in to try to retrieve it. Perhaps I should have left them to it as it was whilst the flip-flop was within a stones throw reach that my other flip-flop got caught in the tide and disappeared also! 

I good five minutes of splashing and several more of laughter we realised that it was not to be. Although we managed to retrieve one of the runaways the second escapee learnt from his partners mistake and didn't look back, my flip-flop was no more. I hopped up the stony (never sandy) beach, along the pavement and to the nearest market stall where I purchased myself a nice new pair of flip-flops...maybe I'm on to something here, the perfect excuse to buy new shoes, "I didn't want to buy them darling but the sea stole my other pair!"

If the shoe fits...

Amongst my circle of friends and family I have never been know for the most sensible of wardrobe choices, and so I want to share with you now a few of my favourite shoe malfunctions...

Not long into my relationship with hubby we booked up a holiday together for a week in Corfu, you know the drill 'sun, sea and shoes'. I didn't enter into the realm of 'couples who holiday' lightly. An avid Cosmopolitan reader at the time I felt I had a plethora of advice at my fingertips to prepare me for our first major holiday as a couple. I knew what an important milestone it was in relationship status, return from you first holiday together still talking and you were set for life.
Naturally the first thing you need to do is put some serious consideration into wardrobe choice. The great thing about a holiday where you are guaranteed great weather is that you can easily pack twice as much because your clothes are guaranteed to be 50% smaller. This left plenty of room for a range of footwear from sexy stilettos for the evening, funky flip-flops for the day and a range of wedges to accommodate the transition times. I was the ultimate girl scout, prepared for every eventuality.

Once in Corfu  we were in perfect new couple mode, we immediately agreed on some compromises, I could have the morning by the pool sunbathing if hubby could spend the afternoon checking out the local history. And so it was a few days into the break when I found myself walking round some ancient Greek ruins on an organised tour-wearing 6inch wedge heels!

I'm sure you're all familiar with those annoying tour guides, the people with unusually poor speaking voices that think that by waving a clipboard or yellow umbrella in your direction guarantees automatic superiority. The kind who insist on "pressing on" despite your loud comments to your partner such as "wow, this is really interesting, I wish we could spend longer looking at this" (or even "please clipboard man let me rest before my 6inch cork wedge heels with a dark blue denim strap cripple me!"). Well let me tell you, those guys can keep up a pace.

Imagine the perilous uneven grounds (couldn't the groundsman keep these ruins a bit tidier?), the hot, foot blistering sun bearing down on you and the multitude of loose stones just eager to cause you an ankles sprain. Combine that with a tour guide on a mission and you can see why I struggled to keep up. My formerly tanned and toned legs, demurely tipped in fabulous shoes could only be compared to a baby giraffe struggling to walk in stilts. And so on our first holiday I managed to unveil my natural clumsiness and lack of co-ordination to hubby, but did I learn from this mistake? Check my next blog to hear the next enthralling episode of shoe malfunctions!

Come dine with me...

Inspired by the TV show I've started a regular 'Come dine with me' experience of my own. Each week hubby, father-in-law, sis-in-law and myself take turns to cook a meal. Two weeks ago it was hubby's first turn and the phrase 'await with baited breath' does not even begin to covey the anticipation. To make clear why this was such a momentous occasion let me tell you a little bit about hubby chef. He is not. He has not and 99% of the time he will not. On the rare occasions I take out my glad rags for a night with the girls and leave hubby to fend for himself he reverts to caveman status. Alongside grunts and bashing me over the head with a club he transfroms into a modern day hunter gatherer. He orders take out. Seriously, frozen pizza is beyond him.

To exemplify his lack of inner 'Jamie Oliver pukka-ness' you need to be familiar with his first attempts at cooking. Hubby's first steps up the mountain of cookery was 'cheese on toast'-this was to become his Everest. The first time unsupervised attempts were made a severe cut thumb ensued as he tried to slice the cheese. Needless to say we now stock a regular supply of pre-sliced cheese. On his second attempt he managed to cut his leg-yes that's right his leg! At the time our oven grill combi was low level and he managed to walk into the open door with such force that his leg was left with a bloodied gash and yet again I had to step in. On his third attempt the oven blew up. I have no idea what caused this but it was like Karma telling us that hubby would not be the next Gino D'Acampo.

Many years of training later he is now able to grill cheese on toast independently and each time is rewarded with a smiley face and a gold star. So I'm sure you can imagine my trepidation the first time he attempted a meal. I decided that hubby wasn't quire ready for independent working and would need some support from an adult. So the cooking process was peppered with a small amount of guidance, "what do I put these on?", "how should I cook these?" and so on. Once the meal was under way however I left him to it and sat myself down to await the feast. Thirty minutes later we sat around the table and all tucked in to a delicious meal of burger and chips. It may not be the most adventurous of menus but I was exceptionally proud that he had at long last cooked his first meal. The teacher in me would probably write the following for his Home Ec report; "Kevin still needs some support in this area but when he tries he is able to produce some lovely results, keep trying Kevin!"

In with the in-laws?

Last Christmas hubby and I played host to the in-laws for Christmas day,well strictly speaking I played host whilst he played dumb to any knowledge of how modern kitchen appliances function. To some this might seem like a nightmare task, especially when you add to the invite list all the other parentage that make our two families complete (something I will have to explain in more detail in a seperate blog), however in fact it was a fantastic day. I am one of the fortunate few that love my mother-in-law and have a great relationship with hubby's side of the familiy as he has with mine. However although we are all one big family now there was still the awkward stage of first introductions and it is an event not long into this process that I am going to recall now.
So not long into the familial bonding process my hubby's stepdad had a birthday party in a nightclub in the town centre. Keen to make a good impression I turned hubby's advice into my mantra, "she doesn't like boring people, be chatty". And so I was determined to be on top, sparkling form, wit and converstaional prowess in abundance. We arrived at the venue and I went into overdrive trying to keep a steady flow of chatter going, think Bridget Jones when she learns the art of networking, Introduce people with thoughtful details. Such as: "Sheila, this is Daniel. Daniel, this is Sheila. Sheila enjoys horse-riding and comes from New Zealand. Daniel enjoys publishing and comes..."
Bridget: "...all over your face? "
I decided to take hubby's younger sister under my wing and ensure she had a good evening by... well pretty much by conspiring to get thoroughly drunk together. So as the evening progressed we did one of many trips to the bar to get in a round. Whilst there I carried on my sparkling converstation with a fireman, proud of my ability to socialise and entice strangers into witty banter. We had a rather intelectual sparring, discussing topical issues such as the current strike actions by the fire service. Feeling rather proud of our success we returned to our table, only to be greeted by barely suumised snickering. It was my mother-in-law who pointed out that the fireman in question was, indeed you've probably guessed by now, a stripper. It hadn't occured to me to wonder why a fireman who pop into a bar for a drink in full uniform, nor why he would be there when the fireman were on strikc-oh dear.
Much hilarity followed and the in-laws thought it was brilliant, still reminding me of the incident to this day. Quite why I thought chatting up a stripper dressed as a fireman was the route to impressing my mother-in-law is beyond me but the good news is she certainly doesn't think I'm too quiet! So my advice to anyone out to get in with the in-laws? Be yourself. And it you're wondering if I am therefore confessing that myself is someone daft enought to chat up a stripper in full belief that he was a on duty fireman... I refer you to the picture on the apron hubby recently bought me. "Oh god, I'm so bloody blonde sometimes!"

Fighting like cats and dogs...

So I recently mentioned the new addition to our family, Rodney the puppy. Rodney joins a family of three, myself, hubby and the cat. Before I get into details of how Rodney has adapted to his new surroundings I think you deserve some history on our cat. Our furry friend, recently being described as football shaped by the vet (overweight doesn't quite cover it), is named Buffy. A closet Buffy the Vampire fan at the time of purchase I thought the name was cute, little did I know it would be literal.

Buffy is an antisocial, occasionally demonic and frequently dismissive cat. In all fairness I blame this on her early upbringing. We view Buffy as a rescue cat. The home from which we purchased her was, how can I say this politely, a stinking cesspit not dissimilarr to the Hellmouth from the Buffy series. We knocked on the door to be greeted by a bedraggled, barely dressed, grime covered child, who swiftly returned to his seat on the threadbare staircase whilst pointing in the direction of the living room. Greeted by the site of a tiny, fluffy bundle of black and white, it was clear from first sight that we would have to take this poor, neglected creature home with us. We promptly handed over the required £20 and when passed the £5 change, offered to let them keep it, although I wonder now if they would have thrown the child into the deal for the extra cash. And so Buffy was rescued.

A timid, fearful creature, Buffy's first few weeks at home started well, if a little on the shy side. She was needy for affection and the excuse to cuddle up on the sofa to settle the kitten was enough to allow me endless opportunities to watch daytime soaps (the joys of Summer holidays). The hubby was also in his element, already being singled out as the preferred lap of choice. Guests to our home were not quite as honoured, in fact they rarely saw her as she hid herself under the sofa in a state of a panic. As weeks passed it became clear that this fearfulness was not going to dissipate as she got older, to this day she remains extremely antisocial and will rarely be seen in the same room, or even floor of the house as any guests (sadly for her she can no longer fit under the sofa...and at her expanding rate soon will struggle to fit under the dining table I shouldn't wonder!)

When talk of a dog began we both swore that Buffy's intuition had her deliberating a plan of action. It began with true vampire slaying aggression, directed at yours truely. Whilst innocently walking to the bathroom one morning I was subject to a vicious flying attack, as the cat clamped onto my leg, sinking in both claws and teeth whilst I searched in vain for some holy water to anaesthetize her with. Instead I ran into the bedroom, slammed the door behind me and dived under the covers in a state of fear. What I had done to deserve such a treatment? I maintain that it was a warning, intended to dissuade me from further dog related discussions. However rising above this cat enforced bullying I became more determined and started searching with new vigour, it was time for Buffy to change tactics...

So Buffy switched to plan B, and I don't mean experimenting with a pleasing mix of rap meets soul music. Actually she had far more elaborate plans, Buffy was playing the role of 'good cop'. After years of dismissive derision Buffy was suddenly a playful, cute, look at me while I roll on the floor, kinda cat. She must have had lessons on tuneful purring (perhaps from Plan B) and was now a bona_fide cute and cuddly, whilst still slightly football shaped. Unfortunately for her this did little to dissuade us, in fact it only added to hubby's fantasy of the cat and future dog, laying next to each other by the fireplace, you've seen the adverts with the friendly cat, mouse and dog right? Well we were all set to make this a reality.

When Rodney joined us initially we followed all the guides and made sure Buffy had access to plenty of rooms that the dog could not follow. She made good use of this and quickly adapted stealth mode, manoeuvring from the bedroom to her food bowl undetected. Gradually we started introductions resulting in an unveiling of Buffy's true nature...the slayer.

Poor Rodney is an unexpected victim of Buffy's rages, the friendly pup keeps going back for more even though each attempt at civility results a blood curdling hiss and a manic swipe of claws. I swear I saw Buffy whittling a piece of wood into a pointy steak the other day. Anyway Rodney's salvation has arrived, after a trip to the vets for an infection Buffy is now wearing a plastic cone to stop her from irritating it more, the resultant effect being a uncannyesemblance to Hannibal Lecter...now is that just me or does that purr sound like the cat saying "I'll eat the dog with some fava beans and a nice chianti".

To be continued...

A new member of the family

So after much deliberation between himself and I, the usual 'can we afford it?', 'will we be able to cope with the cleaning up?', 'who'll take the night shift?', we are proud to confirm the patter of tiny feet, or more accurately tiny paws. Yes, just in time for the Summer holidays we have bought a wonderful and might I add with no maternal bias, beautifully gorgeous Border Collie. I do wonder however if bought is the correct word to describe the process, which feels more like an adoption (albeit an expensive one-think Angelina Jolie). Indeed there was a character inspection, property suitability debate and several recurring visits to offer guidance and counselling on how to cope with the transition. However at the end of it all, we were able to celebrate his 'coming of age' by popping him in the boot of the car and high-tailing it back to our place before he weed all over the interior (again think Jolie adoption scenario).

Within seconds of being in the door there was a toileting incident that could rival any teenagers favourite YouTube clip. I turned to hubby with a smug grin, "good job we put that laminate down" I tittered, before rolling my eyes and fetching the Flash. Sadly my smugness was premature as the puppy promptly raised his tail once more and our cream dining carpet was no longer (cream or even 65% wool, the majority percentage content now being something else!). And so we rolled up the offend-ed item and deposited it outside whilst encouraging the puppy to make his deposit outside also.
So begins life with Rodney...