Stupid people

I have mentioned this in a previous post. A major problem in our world is that many stupid people get to make decisions. Here are a few that I have encountered. Some have now, thankfully, been rectified.

As a young child, I absolutely loved reading books. These days, children are encouraged to read from a young age, but in my days that was not the case.  As I have mentioned in a previous post, I got chastised by my teacher when I dared to read more pages than I was meant to. My parents suggested I join the town library where I could satisfy my desire to read. I rmember going to the front desk to apply for membership. The stern librarian asked me what my age was. When I told her I was eight, she said that only people over ten could join. I was speechless. There was no amount of persuasion that would cause her to relent. I was old enough to catch a bus into town on my own, but not old enough read books. I left in tears. Stupid stupid stupid.

When I was about ten years old, I had my appendix removed. This necessitated a seven day stay in hospital, where I was looked after by reasonably kind student nurses and an absolute battleaxe of a ward sister. The night after my operation I tossed and turned. I must have flung my arms out because I sent a caraffe of water crashing to the floor. I remember crying almost hysterically. I really wanted my mother, but she was not allowed to be there. The ward sister really blasted me for breaking the caraffe. These days, the parents are encouraged to stay with their children when they are in hospital. At that time, parents were only allowed to visit their children between 3.00pm and 3.30pm – half an hour a day. I spent the whole day in my hospital bed looking forward to the thirty minutes that my mother would be with me. I did not see my father, because he was at work, and parents were not allowed to visit in the evenings. Down the passage there was a large ward with younger children. I remember so clearly, when the bell went at 3.30pm to indicate the end of visiting hours, and the parents shuffled out, the huge wail that went up from these kids. They sobbed and screamed hysterically for at least half an hour. The already hard pressed nurses had to try and calm them down. Who made these stupid laws? Surely it would not take more than a few brain cells to realise that giving parents reasonably unrestricted access made the nurses’  jobs easier, and probably made the children recover quicker. Thankfully, things have changed.  A few years ago, Muppet, our daughter, broke her arm rather badly. We were told to go to the recovery room to make sure that when she came around from the anaesthetic, she would see familiar faces.

I could go on. When Spiderman and Muti Man were born, I was allowed to look at them and then I was told to go home. When Muppet was born some years later, I was actually asked to hold her and cuddle her while Mother Superior recovered. I then brought her to Mother Superior, and was allowed to stay as long as I liked. It was a very special moment, and I am still angry that I was denied it with Spiderman and Muti Man.

When Spiderman was three, he became very ill, and had to have a kidney removed. The hospital ward was run by an absolute bitch named sister Brown. She obviously disliked children and parents, but some knucklehead had decided to put her in charge of a children’s surgical ward. Sister Brown decreed that vistors were only allowed beween 9.00am and 6.00pm, never mind that she was dealing with traumatised young children. The night before the big operation, we asked if we could stay with Spiderman. She flatly refused. We got there early the next morning, only to find that he had already been taken to theatre. The thought of this young child being woken up and taken by strangers to his operation still haunts me today. We waited sadly at his bed for him to return, and stayed with him the rest of the day. At 6.00pm, the bitch ushered us out, while he lay in his cot and screamed for us to come back. It was very hard.  The next day, while we waited to be allowed into the ward at 9.00am, we could hear Spiderman crying inside. Mother Superior almost went frantic with worry. The bitch informed us that Spderman was very badly behaved, and we should do something about it. This was a three year old who was recovering from major surgery the day before, and was denied the loving care of his mother. All I can hope is that the bitch is no longer running a children’s ward. The surgeon, who was a renowned professor, and obviously a very intelligent man, saw what was happening, and discharged Spiderman early to be cared for by his family.

As I have already said, fortunately, sanity has prevaled, and parents are encouraged, if not requested, to take an active role in caring for their children while in hospital. Fathers also participate in their children’s birth, and can now enjoy that unique time with their new family.

The Ideal Homes Exhibition

As you have probably guessed from my posts, I get bored quite easily. I absolutely hate doing housework, so I will go to any exhibition in town to get away from it. When I saw that the Ideal Homes Exhibition was coming up, I  considered attending it. Unfortunately, Mother Superior would rather be lowered into a septic tank than endure something like the Ideal Homes Exhibition, so, for once, I was hoping that she would be working at least one shift that weekend so I could go on my own. Well, I was in luck. Not only was Mother Superior working on the Saturday afternoon, but I got a free ticket emailed to me. That made it a lot easier to get permission to go.  Normally Mother Superior does not like the idea of me paying to get into something that she would not enjoy. I also had to promise that, if I entered any competitions, I would put my mobile phone number down, and not our home number. She hates fielding the flood of calls that result.

On the day, I took the train and bus to the exhibition. The first thing I noticed was that there was not the huge crowd of the previous years.  Last year, every second stand had someone selling solar panels, but this time there were only a handful. There were the usual spas bubbling away, and two stands that displayed beds and bedding. I am not sure what they were there for, because the staff there were trying their best not to be seen. I was interested in some latex pillows, and I had to hunt someone down to help me. I found a group of them talking together, and they were not impressed when I interrupted their conversation. I was shocked to find that the pillows cost $264 each, but I could have them for $226 as a show special.

There was the usual fellow flogging paint pads, another selling slurpex cloths, and yet another selling rubber brooms.

At the exhibition stands, there were some very helpful people and some not so helpful. It never ceases to amaze me how people will go to the expense and effort to set up a stand and then sit at a desk and pretend to be engrossed in some reading. If you ask them about their product, they throw a pamphlet to you and continue with their reading. Why do they bother? On the other hand, you get the roller shutter brigade throwing themselves into your path asking you to enter their competition to win $10,000 worth of roller shutters. I have previously entered their competitions, but this time I waved them away. Maybe, I am extremely lucky or unlucky, but my experience has always been a phone call afterwards where they joyously tell you  with much congratulations that, while you have not won the $10,000 worth of roller shutters, you have won the second prize of $500 off our roller shutters, and sound amazed and hurt when you tell them that you would prefer to forgo the generous prize. I takes about ten minutes of them pleading to come over to give you a quote to get rid of them. I start off trying to be nice, saying yes, I am delighted to have won this wonderful prize, but I have not budgeted for roller shutters this year. Unfortunately, they have an answer for everything. They would be more than happy to extend credit and, no, I would not be wasting their time if I did not like the quote, because a representative happens to be in our area, and it is totally no obligation. The only way to get rid of them is to be rude, which leaves me feeling dirty. I did once make the mistake of agreeing to let someone from the Modern group come over to give me a ‘no-obligation’ quote.  The initially friendly salesman turned up and proceeded to measure up my windows. All along, he was saying that he could see why I wanted roller shutters. He then told Mother Superior that we lived in a high crime area, exacerbated by our house being on a rear strata block. It would only be a matter of time before some maniacidal psychopath wreaks total devastation on us. Putting up roller shutters could be the answer to our problems, but we must do it soon. That was a big mistake. Mother Superior absolutely loves the area that we live in, and the quietness of being off the street. She also hates any of her things being criticised. The salesman does not know how lucky he was that I was there, and managed to restrain her. He lost any chance of selling his roller shutters to us. He proceeded to go through the ritual and told us that he was giving us a special price if we put up an advertising sign. I pointed out that we lived off the road, and no one would see the sign, but that did not seem to be a problem. He deducted our $500 prize, with much congratulations on winning it, and presented us with a total that almost took my breath away. Do roller shutters really cost as much as our whole house cost to build? Not to worry, he  said, and pulled out his calculator. After some furious activity, he presented an amended figure, adding that he could get into trouble for being so generous. Mother Superior had lost complete interest, so it was left for me to do the negotiations. He then phoned his boss, who answered the phone remarkably promptly. Apparently, I was in luck. It was the end of the month, and the boss still had some promotion money left in his budget. He then presented me with the final figure, which, although still high, was about half the first figure. By this stage, Mother Superior had had enough, and asked him to leave. He angrily picked up his things and said that he was wasting his time on people like us. After he left, Mother Superior turned on me with fury. She said that no roller shutter salesman was ever to cross our threshold again, or else the retribution would be swift and painful. That night, she wore a track suit to bed to ‘punish’ me.

Anyway, back to the Ideal Homes Exhibition. A young German fellow cleaning windows, caught my attention. He was selling this window cleaner that appeared to be absolutely amazing. He sprayed a piece of glass with hair spray and let it dry. Then, with a few waves of his hand and this window cleaner, it was absolutely spotless. I hate cleaning windows, even more so because we live in a double-story house. The cleaner cost $50, which apparently was bargain, because he produced a price list where it was shown to be double the price. I knew that there was no way that Mother Superior would have bought it, preferring the tried and tested newspaper method. I was also in danger of incurring her wrath for buying it, but I thought I would risk it. Of course, when I got home and tried it, it did not work nearly as well as the young German fellow had demonstrated.  I had fallen into usual trap. If there was a window cleaning act in the Cirque du Soleil, he would have been the star performer. It would be the same if I had bought a set of juggling balls from a juggler, and expected to be able to juggle.  Surprisingly, Mother Superior did not appear to be too cross with me for buying it. I suspect it is because I will have clean the windows from now on to justify the purchase.

I left the exhibition with my usual bag full of pamplets, which will remain on the coffee table until Mother Superior asks if she can throw them out.  I feel quite proud of myself that I did not enter any competition for roller shutters.

On the buses

As I have mentioned in a previous post, I used to catch bus to and from school when I went to primary school at the Springs Convent. Here are some of my memories.

I was about five years old at the time.

In those days we used bus tickets that normally came in books of ten. Each ticket had a small section that the driver would tear off and, for good measure, would punch a hole in the ticket itself.

My mother wisely decided not to let me have the whole book of tickets. Instead, she would give two tickets to me each day. As a safety precaution, Sister Manus, our saintly bus monitor, had her own book of tickets, in case I lost mine for the return journey home.

I was a nervous child, and I sometimes chewed objects unconsciously. I remember getting on the bus one afternoon realising, to my horror, that I had folded my ticket into a tight pipe and had proceeded to ’smoke’ it like a cigarette. I handed the driver a soggy bundle. Unbelievably, he unrwapped it slowly and managed to tear off his bit. When he tried to punch a hole in my portion, it was too soggy. That upset him, and he started to yell at me. I was, and still am, quite sensitive to criticism, so I began to cry. The next minute, I was surrounded by a habit and veil as Sister Manus stepped into the bus to resolve the situation.

I normally travelled in the bus with Sangoma, my older brother. One afternoon, I was on my own on the bus, and I rang the bell to get off. I was only after alighting that I realised that I was at the wrong stop. I tried to get back onto the bus, but the door had already closed, and it pulled off without me. I panicked and screamed at the top of my voice and ran after the bus.  My dear mother was waiting for me at the correct stop, which was not that far away. When I did not get off, she looked down the road and saw this hysterical kid in the distance. She had my sister, Mona Lisa, in a pram, and I think she was also expecting Dalia Lama at the time. That didn’t stop her. It was such a relief for me to see my mother and the pram hurtling towards me at full speed. When we met, she picked me up in her arms while I just sobbed with relief.

The bus we took home from the convent also stopped at the Springs West state school to pick up kids. Instead of the gentle Sister Manus, they had this huge Amazon woman as their bus monitor. She used to get on the bus and yell at their kids. “Move along the bus” she would yell, “Any nonsense and you are off the bus”. I could see that the Springs West kids were terrified of her. I thought I was immune because I was from the convent. One day, I was sitting on the back seat with a group of other convent kids, and my urge to be a showman came to the fore. At the Springs West bus stop, bull woman got on as usual. “Move to the back of the bus” she bellowed, and I imitated her, much to the delight of my travelling companions. “No nonsense from anyone”, and I yelled the same. The Springs West kids looked at me in shock, while the convent kids shrieked with laughter. I was in my element. I had an appreciative audience, and I was not about to stop. I put on the best gravelly voice that I could and began to yell out my own commands. All of a sudden I noticed that the convent kids were not laughing. The bus had fallen silent, and bull woman was heading straight for me. The next minute I was dragged down the aisle and out of the bus. She threw me roughly onto the ground, and my globite school case burst open, strewing the contents onto the grass. I gathered my things together and climbed back onto the bus, utterly humiliated. The funny thing was, even at that young age, I felt that I had got what was coming to me, and deserved it. I was quite surprised when my parents did not have the same understanding. The next day, my dad took off work early, and they came and fetched me from school and, to me horror, drove me to Springs West school. We walked through the kids playing in the playground, and they stopped and stared. I did not enjoy that attention at all. We sat in the principal’s office, and he called bull woman in. She told what had happened, including how cheeky I had been. They asked me if she was telling the truth, and I said yes. My parents then apologised to the principal and bull woman, and she shook my hand and ruffled my hair.

That incident taught me a valuable lesson – to respect all those in authority, even if they do not have jurisdiction over me.

Gift vouchers – why?

At this time of the year, many of us are frantically trying to decide what gift to buy for loved ones, and then decide on the ultimate cop-out, the gift voucher.  This is a system where you exchange your hard-earned money for a plastic card that enables the recipient to buy goods for the same value – with major restrictions. Firstly, they can be used at only specified stores and, secondly, if they are not used before a given date, they cease to have any value. Can you believe it, you exchange your money for the same value with a use by date.

I can see the thinking behind gift vouchers. You don’t know what to buy for someone, and you don’t want to give them money, because you don’t want it to go towards the next month’s groceries.  Unfortunately, I find that receiving gift vouchers can be very stressful. I have so often heard people saying that they have to drive across town to spend a $50 gift voucher at some small boutique before it expires and the money is wasted. When they get to the shop, they often find that it does not stock anything that they want, so they end up buying anything to avoid wasting the money. Alternatively, it does have something that they would like, at double what it would cost at Kmart, so they end up adding their own funds to the purchase, and probably paying more for it.

As I write this, I have a $20 Mitre 10 gift voucher , which I won for footy tipping ( of all things!), that has expired. The reason that it has expired is that there is no Mitre 10 store within 100 Kms, and it would hardly have been worth it to make the long journey simply to spend $20. This is good news for the stores. Charging $20 for a worthless piece of plastic must be very good business for them.

The gift vouchers that really get my goat are those issued by the large shopping centres. People buy them thinking that they offer the recipient a large choice of stores in which they can redeem them. However, when they try to spend the vouchers, they will find that the very stores that have what they want – like Kmart and Big W – don’t accept them.  

My advice to anyone thinking of giving a gift voucher to someone this Christmas is:

• Try to get a voucher that at least offers a discount. For example, gift vouchers I get through API offer a 5% discount. It’s not much, but it does make it more worth while.
• Make sure the voucher is for a store to which the recipient has easy access, and stocks items that they want and like.
• Consider giving a voucher for a reputable online store. This can make it a fun and, unfortunately, addictive experience for the recipient.

I still think, the best way to go is to put some cash into an envelope, with a note suggesting the way it should be spent.

The real problem

Recently a work colleague showed me an article written by Jeremy Clarke, of Top Gear fame, in which he wrote that instead of driver’s tests, people should sit IQ tests. I am not a great fan of Jeremy Clarke, but I think he is spot on with this one.

The real problem facing us today, particularly on the roads, is that the human being is a rather stupid animal – and some are more stupid than others.

In days past, this was shown in some unbelievably stupid military decisions, like ordering thousands of horsemen to charge against heavy artillery. Fortunately, only a few stupid people attained that sort of power, with the majority happy to do menial work like shovelling shit out of stables.

Unfortunately, today almost everyone is able to operate sophisticated machinery in the form of motor vehicles. Something that very few have the intelligence to do. The problem has been exacerbated by high wages enabling most people to afford high performance cars. In the past, only professionals with highly paid jobs could afford them. These people were generally more intelligent, so they had some idea of how to operate them. Now, anybody who can hold a shovel in their hand can own a turbo charged high performance car – with disastrous consequences.

When you think of it, spending all your money on something you cannot legally use is a stupid thing in itself. It is like buying skis in Perth, and then complaining that the government does not provide snow for them to be used.

Most of my drive to work is on a single lane road where it is not possible to overtake. I believe that speed limits are there for a reason, so I stick to them. This infuriates many motorists who somehow feel that they know better, and I am denying them their God-given right to drive at any speed they like. I almost always pick up a tailgater – obviously a moron who is unable to foresee the possible consequences of his actions. Those with a bit of intelligence will sit on my back bumper and then fall back when they see it does not make me go any faster. The less intelligent will continue to drive close by, and show their annoyance by swaying from side to side.

The one part of my journey is the real intelligence tester. The road has two lanes for a short distance. This is where all the intellectually stunted drivers accelerate past me and normally  have to brake heavily to avoid hitting the car in front of me.

What really gets me are those that accuse speed trapping as being revenue raising. They just can’t seem to understand that you have to break the law to get fined. If you stick to the speed limits, it will never happen. I think of some speed traps as being a special tax on idiots, and am only too pleased to have someone pay some of my taxes.

Imagine what it would be like of some of these idiots were allowed to pilot a plane.  Some of their comments would be:

• “Why should I drop down to a lower altitude, all because some guy in the control tower says I must. I know how to fly this thing. Other lower powered buzz boxes can just get out of my way.”
• “If I overtake this guy taxiing in front of me by going onto the grass, I will be able to take off before him.”
• “If I sit on  this guy’s tail, he might get out of the way so that I can land in front of him.”

The IQ test for drivers will have the following questions that will immediately disqualify them from every having a driving license if they answer ‘Yes’.

1. Do you hold your steering wheel with one hand at the 12.00 o’clock position?
2. Do you drive with your fog lights one, even though there is no fog?
3. Do you intend buying a four wheel drive?
4. Do you want  personalised number plates that say “Bubba”, “Hot gear” or the like.
5. Do you think it is OK to tailgate if the driver in front is going too slowly?
6. Do you believe that the right indicator should never be used on a roundabout?

The new bus

As a primary school pupil at the convent , I had to use the bus to get to and from school. Here is reminiscence of those days. There will be more posts on this topic.

Sangoma, my elder brother used to travel with me. One evening he told me that the bus the next day would be one of the new ones. I was greatly excited because I had seen the sleek new buses driving around and really wanted to experience them.

I went to bed that night looking forward to the next morning, and could hardly sleep with the excitement of knowing that I would be travelling in a new bus the next day. In the morning, I got dressed, had breakfast and urged Sangoma to hurry up and walk with me to the bus stop.

We got to the bus stop early, but I didn’t mind the wait. I was going to travel on a new bus. Finally, the moment arrived and our bus appeared over the hill.

It was the normal old bus.

I went into denial, and reasoned that it was not our bus – even though it had all our fellow school children on it. I refused to get onto it. Sangoma was furious, and tried to drag me on, but I stood my ground. Our bus was to be a new one, so this could not be it. The bus left without us. Poor Sangoma had to stay behind as well because he did not want to leave me on my own.

I was sure that our new bus would eventually come, so we stood at the bus stop and waited – and waited. After a long time, I realised that it was not going to happen. I was devastated. We trudged home.

Our mother was understandably upset when we arrived home. She did not drive, so it did create a problem. Fortunately she managed to find someone to give us a ride to school.

It was a sad day for me, but I think it taught Sangoma a lesson not to promise things that he could not deliver.

My family

A trip to Sydney a few weeks ago to attend my niece’s wedding has prompted me to write this post about my wonderful family.

I am one of six children. All of us are married with children -and our marriages are still intact. That must be a record. Also, my parents will be celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary next year. My parents have 24 grandchildren and two great grandchildren.

It is strange, but I often don’t feel that I belong to this family. I am not sure why, but I think I feel that I don’t deserve to be part of this extraodinary group of people. My siblings have all excelled in everything they have done, while I appear to have just muddled along.

My older brother, Sangoma, is a very clever and hard-working man. He is married to Winnie, an academic, who is very astute. They have three super achieving children. I have always held Sangoma in awe because he is my older brother. Even today, I am careful about what I say when I am with him because I sub-consciously expect him to pick me out as he used to do when we were chidren.

Sangoma and his family live quite close to us, but we rarely see them. They are a lot wealthier than we are, and they have a very different set of friends and interests. I do not begrudge them a single cent of what they have got because they deserve it.

I am the second eldest. After me comes Mona Lisa, my sister. They have four children who are also achievers. She is married to Hyperactive, who, through sheer courage and hard work, is a successful businessman. They live in an upmarket area of Sydney, and are very generous people, involved in a number of charities and good works.

The wisest of us all is my younger brother, Dalai Lama. Ever since we were children, we have been very close. He is married to Florence, who is one of the kindest and most generous persons I know. They have six lovely children who have or will do well in life, thanks mainly due to outstanding parenting. Dalia Lama has a senior position in a large company, with all the stress that goes with it.  Florence somehow manages to look after her family, and whoever may be visiting, and still works as a nurse. They really amaze and humble me. Dalai Lama and I don’t always see eye to eye on political topics, and we have had some real blow-ups. But this has not and never will detract from the high regard in which I hold him and Florence.

Next in line is my sister, Roadrunner, who is married to Didgeree Doo. They have four extremely talented children. Roadrunner likes to keep herself fit by taking part in long-distance marathons. Her quietness is complemented by Didgeree’s amazing people skills. He has a keen sense of humour, and is one of the funniest people I know. He also has this uncanny nack of making people feel good about themselves.

My youngest sister Tessie, is married to Mahatma, and they have four children. Tessie is a quiet, loving and generous person, who will do anything to help those who need it. Mahatma is very wise, and is one of those people who are born to be teachers. I have a soft spot for their children, in particular their son, Joe, who reminds me a lot of my own childhood.

Of course, the reason for this great family are the matriarch and patriarch – my dear parents, Mkulubaas and the Mother Provincial. They are both in their 80s, and are still quite active. It really amazes me how they have endured the discomfort of a long flight to Perth to attend their grand-children’s weddings. They are loved by all, and are well looked after by the Sydney family.

 

This post is to be continued.

The wedding

This is one of three posts, covering our trip in Sydney to attend our niece’s wedding.

The eldest of my three sisters, Mona Lisa, and her husband, Hyperactive, have three gorgeous daughters, Betty, Macrolense and Didactic. They also have a son, Pedro, who is their youngest child. Didactic, the youngest of the three daughters, met the man of her life, Mr Chips, and the wedding was planned.

To be quite honest, I was reluctant to go to the wedding because it involved travelling from Perth to Sydney, and we had already gone to Sydney this year for our cruise. I didn’t feel that we could justify the expense, and I really don’t enjoy the long flight. Fortunately, Mother Superior would not have a bar of it, and promised Didactic that we would be there. We had missed Macrolense’s wedding, and she certainly did not want to miss this one. Of course she is correct. Holidays can be organised any time, but family celebrations, like weddings, are unique. If you miss one, there is no second chance.

And so it was last Friday that we eased ourselves into the unbelievably small and uncomfortable seat of a Virgin Blue aircraft bound for Sydney. I will talk about the trip in a separate blog.

On the day of the wedding, Mother Superior and I went to Muti Man’s and Gifted One’s hotel to share a taxi to the church. Mother Superior is quite a game old bird, because we took the monorail. I couldn’t help feeling a strong love for her as she stood in the crowded monorail dressed in her wedding finery.

When we arrived at the church there were already two limousines parked outside. For a moment I thought I had got my times wrong, but when I looked at the kitchy limos, I knew it could not be our wedding. Hyperactive and Mona Lisa have always displayed impeccable taste in everything they do, and this wedding was no exception.

There was a lot of excitement as we were reunited with my family outside the church. They were all there, including Mculubaas, my father and Mother Provincial, my darling mother. I will also write a separate blog about my wonderful family.

We had to wait a while for the bride to arrive at the church because they were held up in the notorious Sydney traffic. I also believe that Didactic had an urgent call of nature when she arrived at the church. At least they had an excuse. We were very late for Muppet’s wedding, and we live close to our church.

The wedding service was magnificent. Because the happy couple are both teachers, they had a boys’ choir that sang the old traditional songs that I really enjoy. It was the best music I had ever heard at a wedding service. I suppose it is a matter of taste, but I absolutely love traditional sacred music and the pipe organ. So many weddings these days have contemporary modern music, which many people enjoy. Give me a pipe organ and a well trained choir any day. I also have my doubts about outside weddings. It certainly looks strange to see a group of people all dressed in their finery on a wind-swept beach, with a celebrant trying to make him or herself heard.

One of the songs at the wedding was Panis Angelicus, which I sang at Muppet and Biggles’s wedding. There was no comparison. I looked at Mother Superior and whispered “That’s not fair”.

After the service, we had the obligatory group photo and then headed off to the reception. We were fortunate to get a ride from my cousin, Carruthers. His lovely wife, Muriel, sat in the kiddies’ seat at the back of their Kluger to make room for us.

The reception was held at an up-market golf club, and it went flawlessly. The food was superb and the music was excellent. I really do think a band makes a huge difference. I do not like to have a discotheque, where some guy tries to justify being there by making stupid remarks and performing silly antics. The speeches were all of an extremely high standard. They were witty without being smutty – and they were interesting. I really hate going to a wedding where the best man tries his best to scrape up all the muck he can about the groom. Why anyone would be interested in knowing that a groom has a penchant for getting really drunk and running around naked is completely beyond me.

I was also impressed with the timing. A few weddings I have been to recently seemed to have speeches that went on and on, and there is very little time for dancing. I have a very short attention span, and can honestly say I was not bored for a second during this wedding.

The evening ended with a happy gathering of people outside waiting for taxis.

The following day, we had a great family gathering at Mona Lisa and Hyperactive’s house. This will be described in my next blog.

I know that we are not having a competition to see who can host the best wedding in the family. If we were, this one would win hands down. I am only glad that our weddings are over, so I don’t have to compete.

Well done Didactic, Mr Chips, Mona Lisa, Hyperactive and Mr Chips’ parents, Snow Queen and Fred Block.

The new arrival

I appologise for being a little late with this post. I have been a bit lazy of late.

Last Monday, Spiderman and Petal produced a new granddaughter for us. She is such a tiny, precious little bundle that I will call her Dewdrop. They now have two daughters, Blossom and Dewdrop.

Well, in the grandfather stakes, the score is me 2, my siblings 0. It does make me feel a bit smug, even though it was nothing of my doing.

On the evening after the birth, Mother Superior and I, along with Muppet and Biggles, went to the hospital to see our new granddaughter and niece. Blossom was not around, so it gave us a chance to admire Dewdrop. As I held this day old baby in my arms, I felt an immediate bond with this tiny person. I am sure I will love her as much as I do Blossom, her sister.

Anyway, Mother Superior and I volunteered to look after Blossom overnight and the following day. We are both really fond of her, so we did not consider it to be an onerous task.

Blossom is a lovely child. She has a vibrant personality and a sharp sense of humour. She relates well to everyone and is obviously very intelligent. This is not surprising, because she has a large extended family that includes two sets of doting grandparents. She spends a lot of time with us, and we all stimulate her in our own way.

Like her father, Blossom is very inquisitive, and must always be closely watched so that she does not come to grief.

Anyway, back to our story. We were rather looking forward to a lie-in the follwing morning, but Blossom had other plans. She woke up at 5:30, and then demanded to know why Doglet, our dog, was still sleeping.  This was the pattern for the rest of the day. Mother Superior went to work that afternoon, leaving me with Blossom. When I dropped her off that afternoon, I was exhausted.

Interestingly enough, all of us were concerned how Blossom would react to the new sibling, so we bought presents for her – and she did really well. When I dropped Blossom off at the hospital that night, friends were visiting. It was quite strange to see everyone fussing around Blossom, and generally ignoring Dewdrop, who should have been the centre of attraction.

Being a second child myself, I felt a remarkable affinity to Dewdrop. I think we will get on well.

Mother Superior and food

As I have mentioned before, I am privileged to be married to a wonderful woman, who is gorgeous inside and out. We are both best buddies, and have been through a lot together. I would say, on the whole, that our marriage has been spectacularly successful. There is just one area where we are not compatible. I love eating, while Mother Superior is never hungry.

I know, I should be very grateful. Mother Superior’s disinterest in food has left her beautifully slim. Apart from her grey hair, which she disguises very well, she is much younger looking than her 52 years. It would, however, be nice to enjoy a meal with her.

When we went on our cruise earlier this year, I was overcome by the temptations at the breakfast buffet every morning, filling my plate with the delights it offered. Mother Superior had an apple and a small tub of yoghurt, and looked at my brimming plate with much displeasure and disappointment. My solution was to rather eat in the dining room where a reasonable size meal was brought to me. Mother Superior had the opposite problem. The dining room portions were too big for her, and she hates wastage – as do I. She won out, so I had to slide my plate down the buffet every morning and forgo the pleasure of having my food served to me.

The Mother Superior and I pride ourselves on being a good team, and we always do things together. Unfortunately, when I get hunger pangs, my pleas to break for lunch are largely ignored. When she does agree to stop for lunch, I head for the kitchen and she decides to quickly do something else, like hang out the washing. I invariably end up eating on my own, and she will grab a banana to eat quickly.

The worst for me is when we go shopping together. When we walk past eateries where ‘normal’ people are having lunch, she does not appear to notice my salivations. When I suggest that we should have lunch, she remarks that I am always thinking of my stomache. She just can’t get it into her head that people have to eat to sustain life.

Oh, how I would love to stop and have a Big Mac with her, but I am denied the pleasure. If she did relent, she would order a small salad, and watch me eat my hamburger with undisguised disgust.

I must admit that she is a good cook, and I love eating whatt she prepares. I just wish she wouldn’t make me feel so guilty about it.

After reading this post, Mother Superior told me that she was not pleased because it made her out to be an anorexic control freak. In fact, she keeps herself trim and healthy for me. The only reason that that she monitors my food intake is because she cares about me. I accept that completely.