Amazing Grace (Scottish Bagpipes)

If you don't see another movie this year, watch Amazing Grace. I bought it, having no idea what it was about, having never heard of it. I bought it for the beautiful photographs (sad, but true. Renting here is expensive, it's cheaper to buy).

All Things British Day!

I was just visiting Flea's blog, leaving comments for Bessie, when I realized that it's time for more views of England from an American in Norfolk.


I took a trip up through Scotland (the first summer we were here) to ride on the Hogwarts Express (right across the Glenfinnan viaduct you see in the movies), and there I got my first look at a Hairy Coo. Aren't they cute?
There are post cards available with a Hairy Coo standing next to a red phone Box,
and he should count himself fortunate to have that moment forever documented since for some strange reason, the U.K. has started replacing them with boring glass BT boxes (imagine an AT&T box but even less complimentary to this dreamy landscape). They sold them off for nothing, but now if you find one at an auction, you could pay close to £1000.00.

On that same trip, I also had an opportunity to try (and passed on it) a Haggis. Those of you with weak stomachs should scroll down now.
It's basically a sheep's organs minced with spices and boiled in the same creature's stomach. Mmmm, yummy.
Haggis and Blood Sausage from Portugal will fall far below Escargot on my list of things to eat, you know, when the world has ended.


You could skip the eating part and just participate in the Haggis Hunt. My kids did. It's alot like Snipe hunting in the states.

I'm dying... we all are, some day

Here's the post I told Kari at I Struggle and Emerge I would do sometime over two weeks ago. And I have yet to play tag with Tammy at The Color of Home and pass on my shiny new award on here from Kathryn , one of my favorite reads. Only so many minutes in a curtain-climber packed day!

7 years, 7 months, 7 weeks, 7 days, 7 hours, 7 minutes to live!

7 years:

I would start traveling! Pompeii, Caribbean, Turkey, and every National Park in the U.S. I'd take the kids to Disney World for two weeks and let someone else clean up after us while we just laughed and played. I'd learn a foreign language and climb a mountain (a small one, I am in my forties, you know!). I'd start getting the stories behind the photos written down for the kids.
Sit in the audience for an Oprah Show (except when she's on her celebrity kick...), or Doctor Phil, or Deal or No Deal-- not yours, sorry, HATE Howie Mandel, but love Noel Edmunds over here. I'll eat in a Gordon Ramsay Restaurant on an evening when he's actually cooking.

7 months:

The panic sets in. I would make some letters or videos for the kids to have when they're older. Basically a "Things I wish I had known" thing with lots and lots of love and positive comments.
See every show in (on? at?) London's West End and on Broadway. I'd lie about my age and try out for American Idol (no, I can't sing), high-five Simon Cowell and tell Randy to stop saying "Yo dog", because it's aging him (and yes, I am SURE they'll believe I'm only 23).


7 weeks:

well, I'm going anyway, so I might as well lie on the beach with coconut oil containing only SPF 2 and tan away! I look so much better tanned. I would be super affectionate with my touchy-touchy husband. I don't like to be touched a lot (gee, I have had someone at my breast or hanging off of my leg every minute of every day for about 10 years now, I don't know why I don't like to be touched).
One of the days, I will sit by the window while the rain falls and read a good book and drink hot chocolate--without interruptions.
Go to the States and see my doggy. Bury my head in his fur until he gets tired of me hugging him.

I MISS MY DOG.

















7 days:

spend every moment talking to my family and friends, eating rich foods, and laughing. I'd be slaughtering everyone at Risk and NOT feeling bad about it.


7 hours:

sit with my family and take in the last sunrise and watch the last sunset (can be done in four hours here in the winter time) and teach my children to see the beauty we live in.

7 minutes:

Well, since I don't have to rush around and pack, I imagine the last 7 minutes would be hugs, a few tears and lots of kisses. AND I would remind my family, ONE MORE TIME, that I want a big party, not some sad, drippy funeral.

Are you up for the challenge? I'd love to see what you come up with, so please drop me a comment if you take and post this challenge.

Forget what I said, put on your dancin' shoes!

All right ladies (and gent), if possible, get up of off your chair and dance along (you can dance while reading?)
I have told my husband that I'd be thinner if we danced more. I used to effortlessly travel between a size 5 and 7 and was a HUGE size 8 when I got married, but marriage came and the dancing ended. Now I can't get one thigh into a size 7. I'm ok with that, because for some odd reason, so is my husband. But what I will have to insist on is that I have stamina. I want to play in my 80s and dance in my 90s.

Still up moving?

Anyway, forget what I said about what I would be blogging-- there's still tomorrow to do that blog I've wanted to do since last week-- I went to my very first (and probably last) Hen Party. What a hoot, it was a real quack up! sooo lame, I know.

In the States, we have the semi-equivalent in bachelorette parties. I have attended a few of those, but the British people certainly have a way of celebrating.

Our first introduction to the way parties are thrown here was when A1 was invited to a birthday party that didn't start until 6 pm. He was 6-- a 6 p.m. party? The invitation said "6 p.m. WI Hall". I actually took the invitation in to the Head Teacher at his school and asked if he could help.
"Whats' a WI Hall, and where do I find it?" and, "There's not enough numbers for the phone to RSVP, how do I dial this?" Sweet man that he is, was happy A1 had already been invited to something and clued me in on where I would find it.

On the night of the party, I left our house a little grumpily. It had taken forever to pick out a gift for this little girl I knew NOTHING about and had to pay a fortune for (remember, we earn dollars and pay pounds-- so double. A $15.00 gift runs me $30.00).
Because you may have never traveled outside of the States before (yet), there are some things you may take for granted. You know that if your kid is invited to a Chucky Cheese party, you're not going to send your little sweetie in a white, ruffled dress. I had NO idea what my kid should be wearing here, and worse, we were out at night on our little country road.
As I pulled up to the village W.I. hall (the Women's Institute Hall, a gathering place kind of like a town hall that you can rent for functions), imagine my surprise to hear disco music blaring out the open doors and enough people coming in and out the doors to rival Walmart on Black Friday.
As we approached, I was thinking, "oh, no, my poor little shy A1! He's going to roll up like a potato bug". When we got inside, our eyes were assaulted by the colourful flashing lights, while bubbles shot endlessly from the bubble blower next to the DJ.
Yes, you heard me. There was a full-on party DJ, leading the kids onto the dance floor.
The room was framed by tables lined with sausage rolls, mini sandwiches, crisps, drinks, pastries, candies... cousin Dudley's heaven.
I was gobsmacked (your British term for the week). I asked the closest thing I could find to the hostess (a teenager--sister to the party girl), "Do you want the parents to stay, or do we go?" "oh, um... you can stay if you want, but you don't have to...um, unless you want to..." (teenagers are the same everywhere in the world, accent or not).
I looked down at my precious little wall-flower and asked him, "Honey, do you want me to stay with you?" as he was wondering away, hand in hand with a mate from school, barely able to force himself to look back at me long enough to say, "you can go".
I went home in shock and told my husband, "we've been doing this birthday party thing all wrong, and with 5 kids, we're in big trouble!"

So, when invited to this Hen party, for my friend who is nearly my age (thus the feeling I won't be invited to many more). I was anxious and scared all at the same time. What to wear?!!

The ladies here aren't conventional. You will see a forty-year old woman with purple hair as easily as a 20-year old. The blingy-er you can get, the more you blend. Women come to queue up at the school in 3-inch heels and clothes with fur or feathers. But the best part, and I hope to blog more on this, is the attitude of the senior citizens here. No walkers for these folks, they walk everywhere, go on hiking holidays and attend things like I went to last night.

Anyway, after an interesting pre-party male dancer (sorry, those pictures are for the Bride only) we had a three-course meal














and danced to a Madness tribute band (I'm giving you the mini-version)
until 2 am.

I didn't have a heart attack, so that was the bonus of the evening.

I did realize that I need to dance more, and if it means dancing to Disney around the house, so be it. I want to be the little 80-something year-old lady I saw boogying the night away with her husband-- the one who limped his way to the dance floor and then shook his groove thing like he was in his 30s.




Dance on people, let's live long enough and healthily enough to embarrass our children well into their middle ages!

And Wordless Thursday...

Something terrible happened yesterday.
A huge storm came blowing through and knocked out our power. Imagine me calling Power Gen., "I know there's a line down, but this is serious, I CAN'T BLOG, PEOPLE!".

Ok, I didn't really make that call--oh yeah, because I didn't have a phone. Or a router to use my broadband. Or water.
When we lose power, we lose water because we're on a well with a pump.
I'm all for 72-hour preparedness and all, but when you take away my electricity AND a way to clean the mud off my boys, I can get a little cranky.

Ask the poor pizza guy who watched me melt down in front of him over two large, cold pizzas (they failed to call out my order when it was up. I was sitting in front of the counter, with nothing to occupy me. Believe me, I didn't miss the announcement, "145? Your order, that has taken double the time to fill than what I quoted you, is up and now we're gonna put it on a shelf and hope your psychic abilities come through for you so that you know to come up here and ask for it"
I still had an hour's drive home with cold pizzas and no way to heat them. They got them back. I came home food-less.

But it gets better. When we have no power, we have no water and our heat is fueled by water (ok, it's fueled by oil--very expensive oil, .42p a liter oil and we just spent nearly one thousand smackers taking our oil tank up to a less-nerve racking level than almost empty). The oil heats the water which then flows through our floors and our radiators. It's no good without it.
So my kids were huddled into one room where we have a propane-fueled fireplace. It was a big, fun, camp-out for them. Not so much for me. Sleeping in the same room as my lifeless computer.

Two things I discovered during this strength-building experience.
I missed you.
And I'm definitely a nutter.