tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-102145262024-03-13T15:50:59.475+00:00Back to SchoolV mature student reading English at Cambridge. What started off as a teenage-style diary, and an excuse to send fewer e-mails, has now become a page consisting mainly of lists and extremely random thoughts. Such is the rich tapestry of life...Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.comBlogger330125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-23937495678478308842008-02-06T04:40:00.000+00:002008-02-06T04:42:18.914+00:00Down UnderI think I've just about managed to get the new blog up and running:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.nonwhingingpom.blogspot.com/">www.nonwhingingpom.blogspot.com</a><br /><br />If any of you have a blog you would like me to link, send me the URL to <a href="mailto:nonwhingingpommy@yahoo.co.uk">nonwhingingpommy@yahoo.co.uk</a><br /><br />Toodle pip!Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-2451798392132966742008-01-22T14:51:00.000+00:002008-01-22T14:56:55.190+00:00Well then chaps, I'll be awf!Apologies for having abandoned this blog of late. I have been stuck in the wilds of Suffolk with the world's slowest internet connection. The stress of living with my parents is turning my husband into more of a mentalist than ever, and all his pent-up energy is resulting in him cooking non-stop; Sophie has done quite well out of this as it means she is given a gourmet lunch to take to work each day to lord over her colleagues. Whereas I'm turning into a bit of a biffer.<br /><br />But the news just in is that my visa has finally been approved, and this time next week I shall be heading for pastures new! I am very excited, if slightly apprehensive about the long flight. Just think: in no time I will be walking upside-down, wearing a hat with corks on it, and saying 'G'day mate' to everyone I see!<br /><br />It's time to tuck up this blog and put it to bed. I may start a new one in Brisbane, if only to fill it with wondrous pictures and tales to encourage you all to come and visit!<br /><br />Byeeee for now...Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-58313103280274063922007-12-13T11:12:00.001+00:002007-12-13T11:26:39.392+00:00Ice-skatingA cold and frosty morning: Tuesday, 8.30 am, on a windy country road. The sparkling silver frost contrasts strikingly against the smooth shiny oil-like blackness of the ice at the side of the road. As the brakes lock on my car and I skid sideways past the large on-coming van that I had originally thought I was destined to hit head-on, a thought occurred to me. "This perilous journey to work has suddenly become far more scary with the onset of the frosty seaso....". My thoughts are interrupted as I land sideways in a bush.<br /><br />It was only when I reached the office that I realised I was in shock. The fact that I sobbed uncontrollably and was unable to string sentence together, was shaking and feeling ready to throw up, were a bit of a giveaway. I decided to work from home in the afternoon.<br /><br />When I got home, joy of joys, Dad was there, which meant I was treated to a Daddy cuddle, the likes of which I have not had in far too long. I snuggled into his jumper as he put his arms around me and rested his chin on my head. "When I hit a patch of ice on my motorbike", he told me, "as I was flying through the air, I said to myself 'You'd better land on your left side because if you land on the right all those cars there are going to run you over'. It's amazing how much time you have to think and how time slows down in these situations, isn't it?". Ah, Daddy. James enquired how many times in his life he's had time to ponder such things when flying through the air. "You'd be surprised", said Dad. I suspect, however, we wouldn't!Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-9766948088721739592007-12-06T08:42:00.000+00:002008-11-15T08:13:03.358+00:00Meanwhile, in the Antarctic...... look what <a href="http://ryantarctic.blogspot.com/">Ryan</a> found in the goody cupboard at his base...<br /><br /><br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140777923916340850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="251" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nDzxr-Do5D4/R1e2SOg0HnI/AAAAAAAAAEc/2IIs2UzzkUg/s320/loveme.JPG" width="161" border="0" />People often find their way to this blog by googling "rhubarb phobia" but I don't think this is quite what they would be expecting.</p><p>Ryan has promised me he didn't write it himself! As long as he also didn't eat it himself, then all is okay in the world. Apart from the nightmares I'm going to have tonight about tinned rhubarb! TINNED RHUBARB!!! How wrong is that ?!<br /></p>Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-64835657210232301552007-12-05T14:45:00.000+00:002007-12-05T15:01:15.098+00:00Extreme NappingSince my computer has been as dead as a dead horse, it has been rather difficult for me to blog. I am limited to doing very short blogs from work, and hoping that nobody here notices that I have strayed from my normal duties. Since starting this very entry, for example, I have had to shrink the screen three times and pretend I'm doing something else. It's not easy being a furtive blogger, I can tell you!<br /><br />It's also not easy being me in general. On Friday my wife was given temporary custody of me so that we could attend our College's end of term party. I arrived with strict instructions to Mo on how she was responsible for getting me to bed in a semi-sober state to avoid one of my crippling hangovers. Things didn't quite work out. My evil twin prevented her from doing anything to help, refusing all offers of water and herbal tea and falling asleep fully dressed and only reluctantly surrendering her contact lenses. Much of the evening is a blur, which is probably a good thing as I think my behaviour was rather appalling.<br /><br />So, Saturday morning was not pretty. It was ouchie. I had to beg the porter to let us stay in the room into the afternoon so that we could have a second sleep. And then we had our third sleep in the carpark of a local Tesco's. We probably looked like we had been murdered. Or people thought we were tramps. The phrase, "I'm getting too old for this shit" springs to mind.<br /><br />But the hazy memories I have of the evening are rather amusing. I think my inner evil twin needs to be let out once in a while if even just to remind me of why I lock her away for so much of the time! And if it weren't for the crazy Friday night, we would not have invented the exciting new hobby of Extreme Napping the following day. My plan is now to nap in a variety of interesting and unusual places, possibly starting with my desk in my open-plan office at work, my keyboard being used as a pillow... the possibilities are endless.<br /><br /><br />PS. Thank you, Mo, for trying to look after me and for taking my contact lenses out and for the use of your car as an afternoon napping venue!Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-67399053740664561532007-11-27T11:25:00.000+00:002007-11-27T11:28:48.413+00:00My Mo-Fo of MotherboardDear Readers! My laptop is dead: dead, I tells ya. And, let me tell you, it's the last computer I ever buy from Dell. I've written a poem about it:<br /><br />Dell<br />Can go to hell<br />Can Dell<br />Dell smells<br /><br />I'm going to send it to them and see if I get a refund.<br /><br />In the meantime, can anyone else give me a few hundred quid so that I can get a new laptop? Please?Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-90536234164731882072007-11-18T09:18:00.000+00:002007-11-18T09:50:25.002+00:00RetirementIt was a crisp November day, as my colleague and I took her dog for its daily lunchtime stroll around the paddocks. There was a chill in the air, the first taste of ice on the breeze this winter and the morning frost had not yet quite managed to melt; the ground was still crunchy under foot and our welly-clad feet still manged to produce a spring in our steps. Me, my colleague and her small, yappy-type dog were in good spirits as we set off to explore the paddocks and say hello to our favourite horses.<br /><br />But before the walk had begun in earnest we were stopped in our tracks. I stood on the path, frozen to the spot, as a large beige object on the ground only a few metres to my left caught my attention; Kirsten was similarly rooted to the spot squinting at something a good 20 metres away on the path ahead. "Look!", I said, slightly shocked and disturbed, pointing to the left. "No, you look!", she said, pointing at the path ahead with rising panic in her voice. And thus it was that our gazes shifted focus, and I stared at her dead horse whilst she stared at mine. <br /><br />We stared backwards and forwards at the shapes, then looked at each other: "Is it ...?", "yes", "it's not just sleeping?", "No, it's very much no longer with us, I'm afraid". "Ah". <br /><br />I still stared at its belly for a while, the naive 10 year old in me wanting to see signs of breathing. But I think even 10 year old Becky had enough equine knowledge to know that horses don't sleep like that during the day, and are certainly not allowed to have power naps in the middle of a path. They were very much ex-horses. They were no more; they had kicked the bucket, ceased to exist.<br /><br />We opted for a different walking path, deciding it was time to meet some new horsey friends...<br /><br /><br />(PS. Ryan: I was going to call this blog Sigourney Weaver - geddit?)Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-28573421207250659442007-11-14T10:42:00.000+00:002007-11-14T11:42:48.695+00:00Form-Filling-InAnyone who has known me for even the shortest length of time is probably aware of the fact that I'm not very good at filling in forms. There's something about the whole process, about being asked to tick boxes and write my opinion in a confined amount of paper-space, that makes me want to misbehave.<br /><br /><br />Example 1: Cambridge, First Term, English Lecture Hall: Our first lecture series was sadly over, finishing a couple of weeks earlier than the others. Mo and I had particularly enjoyed the lectures because they were given by someone we thought was rather dishy. At the end of the final lecture, we were given a feedback form to fill in. Under 'other comments', I wrote "Dr X rocks! I would really, really like to bake him some shortbread". I handed in the form, and thought nothing more of it. Well, nothing more until we went to a different lecture of Dr X's. As we marched in and took our seats, he sat there with a bemused grin on his face. Before the lecture started he told the entire hall what had been written on the form. "Some lecturers - younger lecturers", he lamented, "get given phone numbers. I get the offer of shortbread. But, whoever wrote it, I just wanted to let them know that I love shortbread and it can be left any time in my pigeon hole at college any time." I went scarlet. But biscuits then became a major theme in my lecture feedback forms: I rewarded a young lecturer who had done some good medieval translation classes with Foxes' Classics, declared that my favourite lecturer of all should be given chocolate Hobnobs and derided my least favourite with an offering of stale custard creams.<br /><br /><br /><br />Fast-forward to last week. The worst of all form-filling-ins- my visa application form! Ouchies! I put it off and put it off until J finally sat me down, handed me the form and the pen and sat with me until I had finished it. Then I left it with him to post. Luckily, for both of us, he checked it before he sent it because under the section about our marriage I had confidently ticked a box to say we were legally separated! Thankfully, I ticked the no box when asked if domestic violence had occurred (even though it has - he constantly pokes me and insists on kissing me when he's just had tinned mackerel on toast). I had also put my Mum's passport details under my dad's date of birth. Well, it's so easy to get confused with these things, isn't it?<br /><br /><br />So, basically, the entrance clearance officer was very close to receiving a visa application from a dyslexic mentalist who had already separated from the husband she was supposed to be accompanying. <strong>BUT</strong> as part of the application process, they have asked for evidence of how we support each other, and I think this is a case in point. He covered up my mistakes, laughed at my lapse of sanity and was still proud of me for finally filling the form in. I couldn't really ask for a more supportive husband, could I? And I support him by making him feel needed, by making him feel cleverer than me and giving him something to laugh at. Maybe I should have written that on the form!Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-52963687171218677432007-11-08T18:07:00.000+00:002007-11-09T07:40:26.705+00:00Only Julie<p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" >Mad Irish Julie came to stay at the weekend. I was going to write a pen picture of her for the blog, a tribute to her madness and Irishness, if you like. I was going to start lots of sentences with the words “Only Julie…”, as in “only Julie could get locked in a flamingo enclosure of the local zoo after a guided tour for the diplomatic corps, and have to expose her knickers to other diplomats when climbing over the fence”, or “only Julie could blame outrageous dinner party behaviour on an overdose of cough mixture” or maybe “Only Julie would have to spend a brief but memorable period of her working life baking cakes in public as part of a department store window display”, and so on (and, believe me, there would have been lots of stories to keep me going). </span></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" >Then, the day after her departure, I made a discovery in the shower! There I was, minding my own business, and washing my hair, when I spotted the dim outlines of some pots on the shower windowsill. Not wearing my glasses in the shower (for that would be foolish, dear readers), I had to lean right forward until the pots were a few centimetres from my face. Behold! Clarins pots!! One pot of day time moisturiser and one of night time cream!! I didn’t get my hopes up. I thought they must have been empties, left there by James on one of our panic house cleary-uppies prior to people coming to view (the house is for sale, you see!). So I gingerly opened one of them. Full to the brim!! Still not wanting to get my hopes up, I later asked Sally if they were hers. She looked at me and sighed: “Becky, I can’t afford Clarins”. Well, me and her both, sunshine!</span></span><script><!-- D(["mb","\u003c/p\>\n\n\u003cp\>\u003cfont size\u003d\"2\" face\u003d\"Arial\"\>\u003cspan style\u003d\"font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial\"\> \u003c/span\>\u003c/font\>\u003c/p\>\n\n\u003cp\>\u003cfont size\u003d\"2\" face\u003d\"Arial\"\>\u003cspan style\u003d\"font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial\"\>Then I realised. Only Julie would realise that two\npots of Clarins moisturiser are all that is needed to make an impoverished ex-student\nin badly-paid employment feel like a princess – a well-moisturised and\nage-defying princess! I love Mad Irish Julie. For not only is she\nMad, and slightly Irish, but she is also a magic fairy who bestows expensive\nface cream upon the needy! And I didn’t realise just how needy I\nwas until I found the treasure she had left behind….\u003c/span\>\u003c/font\>\u003c/p\>\n\n\u003c/div\>\n\n\n \n\n\u003c/div\>\n\n\u003c/td\>\n\u003ctd valign\u003d\"top\" align\u003d\"right\" width\u003d\"160\"\>\n\u003cdiv align\u003d\"right\"\>\n\n\u003cimg alt\u003d\"ILPH corporate logo\" border\u003d\"0\" usemap\u003d\"#1161fa3fd6acdaf7_jan_07\"\>\u003cmap name\u003d\"1161fa3fd6acdaf7_jan_07\"\> \u003carea href\u003d\"http://at.insight.messagelabs.com/at10/echo2/to/googlemail.com/from/ilph.org/redirect_url/http://www.ilph.org\" shape\u003d\"rect\" coords\u003d\"0, 0, 159, 170\" target\u003d\"_blank\" onclick\u003d\"return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)\"\> \u003carea href\u003d\"http://at.insight.messagelabs.com/at10/echo2/to/googlemail.com/from/ilph.org/redirect_url/http://www.ilph.org/mailinglist.asp\" shape\u003d\"rect\" coords\u003d\"0, 170, 159, 290\" target\u003d\"_blank\" onclick\u003d\"return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)\"\> \u003carea coords\u003d\"0, 290, 159, 440\" shape\u003d\"rect\" href\u003d\"http://at.insight.messagelabs.com/at10/echo2/to/googlemail.com/from/ilph.org/redirect_url/http://www.ilph.org/video\" target\u003d\"_blank\" onclick\u003d\"return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)\"\> \u003carea href\u003d\"http://at.insight.messagelabs.com/at10/echo2/to/googlemail.com/from/ilph.org/redirect_url/http://www.ilph.org\" shape\u003d\"rect\" coords\u003d\"0, 440, 159, 529\" target\u003d\"_blank\" onclick\u003d\"return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)\"\> \u003c/map\>\n\n\u003c/div\>\n\u003c/td\>\n\u003c/tr\>\n\u003c/tbody\>\n\u003c/table\>\n\u003cbr\>\n\n\u003cimg width\u003d\"1\" height\u003d\"1\"\>\n\n\u003c/div\>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n",0] ); //--></script></p> <span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" >Then I realised. Only Julie would realise that two pots of Clarins moisturiser are all that is needed to make an impoverished ex-student in badly-paid employment feel like a princess – a well-moisturised and age-defying princess! I love Mad Irish Julie. For not only is she Mad, and slightly Irish, but she is also a magic fairy who bestows expensive face cream upon the needy! And I didn’t realise just how needy I was until I found the treasure she had wondrously left behind...<br /></span></span>Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-31120261228398821312007-11-07T19:25:00.000+00:002007-11-08T07:38:47.586+00:00Breaking news!!!!!!!The perilous journey home from work, in the darkest<br /><br /><br />Update: I apologise for the interrupted post. You may have found this blog rather dull of late, but half way through last night's entry (so to speak), I was, in fact, kidnapped by aliens. Anal probes, the works. I have now been returned and am sitting at home with tin foil around my head so that they can't continue to read my thoughts. And people think life in the wilds of Norfolk is dull - imagine!!!!Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-18397547705027619582007-10-29T07:56:00.000+00:002007-10-29T08:00:20.248+00:00Time for a Day Trip!Seeing as my life is Not Very Interesting at the moment, I'm taking all my readers on a day trip to An-Tarc-Tic-A today, to visit my dear friend Dr Ryan:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.ryantarctic.blogspot.com/">Click here for immediate transportation - and enjoy your trip!<br /></a>Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-68403180393566688032007-10-23T19:33:00.000+00:002007-10-23T19:50:58.783+00:00Horse-Tastic!I work in a lovely building surrounded by a working farm, and paddock after paddock of contented horses. Horses of all shapes, sizes and shades. I swear that some of them think I played a personal role in their rescue, as they look at me lovingly whilst contentedly munching on grass as I walk past. Some of them trot over to say hello, holding their heads high, snorting softly, letting their mains billow in the autumnal breeze. Thankfully, most of them have learned to apply the breaks or start to back-peddle before they reach the electric fence...<br /><br />The horses aren't the only ones to have gone through adversity to reach the place, though, believe you me - for my journey to work proved to be Fraught With Danger! First, I had to cross the A140 - no easy task at 8 am, let me tell you! Trucks were trying to hit me. Then I had to drive through windy country roads, dodging suicidal pigeons and pheasants who kept threatening to run under the wheels of my car (it's like playing a computer game, Splat the Wildlife or some such like). There is a Weak Bridge (there's a sign that says so, so it must be true! How weak, I wonder? Weak enough to buckle under the weight of my car?). And to top it all off, a particularly large sugar beet fell from the trailer of a tractor and landed with a very loud thump on the roof of my car. It may have left a dent (I've been too lazy as yet to check). It is a perilous journey! Now I know how Sir Gawain felt (except, of course, I have no sex-mad trollop attempting to seduce me while my host is out hunting, and I'm also hoping I won't have to allow a Green Knight to chop my head off at some stage of my journey).* This sort of thing never used to happen when I used to commute in London, although there was always the danger of Leaves on the Track, and also flashers.<br /><br />James is now a fully-accomplished house husband. I get tea in bed in the morning, then he makes my breakfast while I am in the shower, and makes my packed lunch while I am eating my breakfast and making yummy noises. He runs to the front door when I return home from my Perilous Journey in the evening, gives me a big welcoming cuddle and ushers me indoors to await my dinner. See, he may be really mean to everyone else in the world, but he adores me. For I am The Chosen One. What a lucky lady, eh?<br /><br />Now I must leave you all, for I am weary.<br /><br />* For those of you who haven't read the medieval text, <span style="font-style: italic;">Sir Gawain and the Green Knight</span>, do not worry, for it was a crap analogy anyway.Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-84676451627940021832007-10-20T13:20:00.000+00:002007-10-20T13:33:13.303+00:00ResigningSo, rather than resign myself to doing a shite job for shite money, I resigned from the job on Thursday. The path of resignation did not run smoothly. <br /><br />Firstly, I emailed my boss, who was at our other office all week, saying that I was having difficulty surviving on the salary I was getting and asking if there was anything that could be done in the way of a pay rise, however tiny - and asking if we could have a private chat. Instead of talking to me, my boss forwarded my email to HR, who in turn called the agency. So by the time I rang to resign, having received no reply to my request for a chat, Reed were waiting for me, claws out. Miss Squeaky-Voice, BA (Hons), my rep, said "Actually, Rebecca, we're very disappointed in you". I said "Are we? Gosh!". She then launched into a rehearsed speech about me knowing what I was letting myself in for with regards to both the job and the salary (and she managed to get the whole speech out in one breath - the lungs on that woman!!). Fortunately, 3 years of writing less-than-perfect essays and having to defend them on a weekly basis at Cambridge, has done its work: I argued back, in an articulate and confident manner. Miss Squeaky-Voice, BA (Hons) and her pathetic excuse for a recruitment agency have been put firmly in their place. And I'm still considering emailing her telling her exactly how pathetic it is to put BA (Hons) on one's businesscard. Wankress!<br /><br />I feel as though a huge cloud has been lifted. The English weather, ever aware of its role in the pathetic fallacy, is displaying suitably bright blue autumnal sky and the birds are singing. And, what's more, today we are going for the long-awaited Chinese All You Can Eat Buffet for Sam's birthday - a banquet awaits us, all for £13.99 - imagine!! Oh, the food we shall eat!<br /><br />In other news, my husband is incredibly gorgeous and an utter sexpot, so life is indeed looking great right now!Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-50205364188173054912007-10-18T21:08:00.000+00:002007-10-18T21:12:24.222+00:00Doing a RunnerIn breaking news, dear readers, I am running away from my job! Well, isn't life too short for doing a job that makes you want to pull out your own finger nails one by one, just to pass the time? Isn't life too short to spend all day pretending you're not playing Freecell because you're not allowed on the internet and have nothing else to do? Isn't life to short to be miserable for 8 hours a day and be paid tuppence ha'penny for your troubles? Isn't it?<br /><br />For those of you who haven't already guessed the answer: Yes, it is!!<br /><br />I am running away to a new place of work. A place that rescues gorgeous horses! A place where people take their dogs to work! Imagine! Oh, I shall start stockpiling carrots in eager anticipation of spending my lunch breaks making friends with horses - the fun I shall have!<br /><br />I'm sure this one will be fantastic. Nothing could possibly go wrong - nothing at all! <br /><br />Isn't life great?Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-48095789127827222632007-10-14T20:27:00.000+00:002007-10-14T21:00:40.546+00:00Growing PainsRyan and Mo came for the weekend. We had drinks, funny conversations, serious conversations, walks and pub food. I got tearful saying goodbye to Ryan - he's off to <a href="www.ryantarctica.blogspot.com">Antarctica</a>, and it will be some time before I see him again. Cambridge is starting to feel like a long time ago, and it's scary. Mo and I have gone from spending the hours every day in each other's company to catching up via email and occasional visits. <br /><br />I'm not sure I like having to grow up and I miss the holiday camp atmosphere of living in college, where we were closeted away from the real world. It was a charmed life. The smell of autumn, the long shadows and the crisp multicoloured leaves, tell me it is Michealmas term and part of my brain is wondering why I'm not back at lectures, why I'm not cycling along with my scarf billowing in the October wind peddling furiously to get to a supervision on the other side of town. I want to be in Martin's cafe with Mo, drinking coffee and laughing so much my stomach hurts, I want to be in Ryan's room watching downloaded episodes of Southpark on his computer, I want to be talking utter rubbish with a big crowd of clever people in the college bar. I want to be standing on one of the bridges over the river Cam as a tourist loses his punting pole and falls in the river, to the applause of on-lookers, hearing someone inevitably utter the immortal words "that's <span style="font-weight: bold;">so</span> Cambridge!". <br /><br />Then I think of the week ahead. Dinner with my sisters on Wednesday night, dinner with my parents on Thursday: I'm living closer to my family than I have done in over a decade. But this too will be over before we know it; the winter will have hardly begun before we are flung into the middle of an Australian summer and another exciting new chapter in our lives (we hope!). <br /><br />Sometimes I just have to remind myself to stop looking back, to stop trying to look forward and take a look around me, where I am right now. We are living in a gorgeous old cottage, we have beautiful countryside on our doorstep, my whole family as neighbours, home-brewed beer in the garden shed, visits from friends to look forward to. I miss my past life, but I'm rather fond of my present one too. <br /><br />But I'm still tempted to kidnap both Mo and Ryan and keep them prisoner in the cupboard under the stairs!!Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-47767243897647548502007-10-07T16:33:00.000+00:002007-10-07T16:45:31.220+00:00Peter the PigPeter the Pig is my parents' friend. He is a pig farmer. That's why he is known as Peter the Pig. Once a week he, like many others in the village, gets visited by Paul the Fish. Paul the Fish is a man who sells fresh fish from the back of his van. He's a jolly chap, and his fish is delicious. We like Paul the Fish.<br /><br />The only woman in the village who has attracted a similar title is Margaret Pudding. When I ask people why she is called that, their eyes glaze over, they smile in remembered contentment and say "Ohhh, she makes the most fantastic puddings, does Margaret". There is also Prue, who makes the most fantastic pies. But I don't think she is yet known as Prue Pie, perhaps because it sounds rather cannibalistic. Prue's pies are so good that when Nanny died, and we were all still red-eyed and raw with grief, Sophie still managed to find in our bereavement something to be exploited: "If Prue calls and asks if there is anything she can do", she said to Mum "...as she no doubt will, being a good Christian neighbour and all, tell her she could make us a pie". That's how good her pies are: they are worth exploiting the death of a beloved relative just for the small possibility of eating one of her lamb and mint or roast chicken pies. They would have comforted us, they really would. I drove past Prue the other day, as she was slowly making her way down the road, walking stick in hand, and I was sorely tempted to open the window and yell "Bake more pies!!!". Perhaps I shall call her Prue the Pie.<br /><br />As for me, all I can hope for is that one day I am known as Becky Jam. I will be a creature of mystery, flying back into the country once or twice a year and leaving nothing but delicious batches of fresh fruit jam behind me. "When will Becky Jam be back?" people will ask, "I'm nearly out of gooseberry and I've been longing for some of her blackcurrant". "Ah, Becky Jam will know when the time is right", will be the reply, "just like she always knows when the setting temperature is just right - that's why her jam is so fantastic!". One day, if I'm really lucky, people will exploit the deaths of loved ones just for the chance to taste my jam. Then I'll know I've really made it amongst the other Great Named Ones of the village food chain.Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-82811109608129906922007-09-30T20:13:00.000+00:002007-09-30T21:19:05.404+00:00EulogyThursday, 1 pm. The village gathers in the church to pay its final respects to C, who took his own life just over a week ago. C was one of the good guys, one of the real characters of the village, a M*tfield man through and through. He was someone who always greeted you with a cryptic joke and a glint in his eye, someone you would bump into in the pub, share a pint and a laugh with whilst often straining to battle your way through his broader than broad accent in order to find out just what the joke was. He was warm, generous, larger than life: a gentle giant. He was also someone for whom storm-clouds gathered, whose black dog days were overpowering and painfully real.<br /><br />Cars lined every inch of the street before his funeral. Apt for a mechanic, I thought to myself. But it was also evidence that this village man had friendships far beyond the village boundaries. I approached the church with just minutes to spare before the service started. Standing room only. People stood outside, dotted amongst the gravestones, the crowds spilling over from the church: people who knew they wouldn't get to hear the service but wanted to be there for C regardless. <br /><br />I squeezed in at the back with my dad, held on to him for dear life. Listened while the vicar talked about C, his life in the village from the young boy who used to walk around with a guinea pig up his jumper to the C we all knew in adulthood. The C who bumped into the vicar after a recent spate of funerals and said "Planting another one, are we vicar?". Glint in his eye. "One day, you'll be planting me!". C's way of saying hello, it seems, was to mock you gently. I also listened as his son, bewildered with still-raw grief, battled through his tears to make a simple declaration of love, and while his brother bravely and calmly delivered the eulogy. I looked around at the crammed church: the village was there in force: biker chicks with long black hair and leather boots, mechanics in work overalls, farmers, the usual suspects from the village and the Women's Institute and an old granny in a grey cardigan and bright orange crocs. And a multitude of faces I didn't even recognise: fathers of childhood friends, children of older friends, people whose lives he had touched. So much love, so many friends, bravery, confusion and tears. Did he know? Would it have made any difference if he had?<br /><br />We sang "All Things Bright and Beautiful": a song that has me choking back vomit when people have it at their weddings. But a song that was perfect for C's funeral. I sang it with hot salty tears running in a steady stream down my face. I hoped for a while that the vicar was right, that C has found his way to a better place where there is no more pain. Outside, Doreen said to me "You just hope, don't you, that he can look down and see how many people are here, how much he was loved". <br /><br />The day itself was like the hymn: bright and beautiful. The Suffolk skyline after a storm has a bare beauty all of its own. Patches of bright blue sky, raw and cleansing, forcing its way between cotton wool clouds. But it was C's day, and the sky knew it too. Storm clouds, sombrely dressed in funereal black, formed their own guard of honour on the horizon. And there, in the middle of it all, a half-formed rainbow, the brightest I've ever seen, stretched up towards the heavens. <br /><br />I say my own silent prayer, "Rest in peace, big guy".Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-45405579286071367342007-09-16T14:03:00.000+00:002007-09-16T14:14:04.469+00:00PaperSo. We have been married for a year. How time flies when you are in constant fear for your life, when you spend your evenings being chased around the house, tickled, poked, made to jump at inopportune moments, when you finally get all the attention you have craved at the cost of living with someone who threatens to send their dimembered toe-nail to one of your dearest friends. How time flies when you are passionately in love with your closest friend - it almost feels naughty being married. We really shouldn't be having this much fun!<br /><br />The first anniversary is a paper anniversary. I have been thinking of paper gifts to bestow upon my beloved. A magazine subscription? A print-out of the hotel booking I have made for our anniversary? And what will he give me, I have been wondering? An advance copy of his <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Terry-Eagleton-Introduction-James-Smith/dp/0745636101/ref=sr_1_2/202-1014625-8914251?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1189951253&sr=8-2">book</a>? A wad of cash?<br /><br />I mention it to him. "It's paper this year", I hint, gently nudging him to put his thinking cap on and come up with something thoughtful. <br /><br />"Oh good!", he cries, "I can hit you with a rolled up newspaper!". He grins, the delight twinkling in his eyes.<br /><br />He nods, and continues:<br /><br />"Or... yes! I could get some stiff paper and give you paper cuts on that funny skin between your toes!!".<br /><br />I start to walk out of the room, as the stream of consciousness continues and the threats become more and more inventive. I realise that the challenge this anniversary presents is to make an innocent piece of paper sound as threatening as possible, and it is a challenge to which he rises with gusto.<br /><br />I love my husband. No-one else has one quite like him, you know.Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-87406486746956050962007-09-15T08:29:00.000+00:002007-09-15T08:36:38.568+00:00Secrets and LiesWednesday afternoon games are now a regular fixture at work. After the excitement of assassins last week, we went for a calmer option on Wednesday. We played a game called Secrets and Lies. Everyone had to give 3 statements about themselves, one of which had to be a lie. We emailed them around, with voting buttons for people to guess which one was invented. My three were:<br /><br />1. I have a diplomatic passport<br />2. My mum was in the <a href="http://http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YRlGQvOxDwI">Shake and Vac Advert</a> in the 1980s<br />3. I am terrified of <a href="http://educatingbecky.blogspot.com/2005_03_01_archive.html">rhubarb</a><br /><br />Everyone - absolutely everyone - guessed that number three was the lie. They obviously haven't been reading the blog! Other truths that came out were that one colleague had lap-danced in Rio, and that our courier was a monk for 6 years and married an ex-Nun. The lap-dancing colleage (who is shortly due to reach retirement age) was rather shocked that no-one guessed the lap-dancing as a lie, but instead everyone identified the real lie - that she was good at knitting. It's a funny old world, isn't it?Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-63476330456207453072007-09-04T20:15:00.001+00:002008-11-15T08:13:03.842+00:00Getting in a Pickle<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nDzxr-Do5D4/Rt2-EPgr7qI/AAAAAAAAAEA/IIsF9v2AAq8/s1600-h/135_3547_r1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 98px; height: 131px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nDzxr-Do5D4/Rt2-EPgr7qI/AAAAAAAAAEA/IIsF9v2AAq8/s320/135_3547_r1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106446532600393378" border="0" /></a>Plums. Everywhere. Hanging off the branches of the tree like a gazillion bunches of grapes, staring at me accusingly as some of their siblings start to decay: "Oh please not like this, don't let us end our lives like this", they cry, "The horror! The senseless waste of it all!" Tonight I answered their call. I have turned many of them into jam, bright purple jars of the stuff, and others have been reincarnated as plum dipping sauce while the remainder have been transformed, as if by magic, into compote. The cycle of life continues in its own small but tasty way.<br /><br />As I magically transform fruit into bright jars of jam and sauce, Jamie types away upstairs, transforming his very clever thoughts into a computer file that will in turn be transformed into a book. I spread jam, as he spreads knowledge, you see.<br /><br />This is what happens when one can't afford a television, my friends. Small miracles get performed!Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-41159461548070004092007-08-30T18:43:00.000+00:002007-08-30T18:49:32.410+00:009-5, what a way to make a living!The reason I haven't updated in a while is that I got the job (why, of course I did!). Dynamic is the word: I get to open the mail, answer the phones and make tannoy announcements. I'm considering doing the tannoy announcements in a different accent every time: that way, people will think the temp has left yet again. And who could blame her? It's rather dull!<br /><br />Oh, how I yearn for the days when I could spend my time knitting and making jam! Why didn't I appreciate them more at the time? Why did I curse my jam for being too hot and not setting properly, berate my knitting for looking like it was done by a mentally-deranged under-achieving monkey? Why?<br /><br />My brain is missing Tripos. I've been googling courses in Latin, Medieval French and ancient Greek. Not quite as bad as James, however, who is procrastinating (when he is supposed to be finishing his book) by learning all about quantum cryptography. It's a good job we found each other: who else would have either of us?Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-89725353024923553362007-08-23T20:01:00.000+00:002007-08-23T20:13:43.452+00:00Back on the Chain Gang (ooh, aah!)The recruitment agency finally sent me for an interview. It has been a frustrating few weeks, registering with an agency for a specific (and, I must say, rather shite) job which for which I was subsequently rejected due to being over-qualified. Undeterred by this ruling, my rep then proceeded to put me forward for a series of increasingly shitty jobs, culminating with an offer of work "doing customer service for the caaaancil", which meant taking telephone enquiries about such fascinating topics as rubbish collections etc. Despite the fact that this is obviously a fulfilling and worthwhile career choice, I'm afraid I snapped, and promptly fired off one my infamously snotty emails. The Foreign Office taught me well.<br /><br />I was then put forward once again for the original job and this time I made it to the interview stage!!!<br /><br />The most memorable part of the interview went something like this:<br /><br />Her: As you know, our offices will be relocating at the end of the year. Morale is rather low. Can you suggest any group activities we could do to boost team morale?<br /><br />Me: Yes, you can all pretend to kill each other!!<br /><br />This was met with a stunned silence by my two interviewers, who simply stared at me, open-mouthed. I felt further explanation was necessary, as they were obviously not able to see beyond my simple suggestion to the complex workings of the activity I had in mind...<br /><br />Me: You see, it's a game, called Assassins. Everyone is given a target in the company, who they have to kill, and everyone is therefore both a potential assassin and target at the same time!!<br /><br />More stunned silence, accompanied by obvious signs of agitation... I pursue, digging myself deeper..<br /><br />Me: You see, you all PRETEND - that's right, PRETEND - to kill each other with plastic knives, water pistols .. oh! and pieces of string with which you can garrotte each other!<br /><br />I sit back, rather pleased with myself, only to be met with disconcerted looks from my two interviewers. They look at each other, eyebrows raised. I suddenly realise, with a slight amount of horror, that I have used the word "garrotte" in a job interview.<br /><br />Her: Well, we have another person to interview at 12, so we'll get back to you through the agency. <br /><br />I come home rather deflated. Jamie asks how the interview went. "Well", I explain, "I think I inadvertantly suggested they all kill each other in an attempt to improve morale...".Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-88724570313908827282007-08-20T21:34:00.000+00:002007-08-20T21:56:56.818+00:00Animal CrackersIt has been a strange day here in Norfolk. I always took it for granted that the humans in this part of the world tend to act rather strangely, hence the saying <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Normal_for_Norfolk">"normal for Norfolk"</a>. But the animals, it transpires, aren't much better.<br /><br />Take, for example, my sister's pets. She has a cat who, having been brought up from kittenhood with two dogs, believes he is a black labrador. Even when he was a kitten he would kill and bring home adult rabbits twice his size. He walks like a labrador, helps the dogs to steal food by knocking it from the kitchen work surfaces, and play fights with his canine friends. When we took the dogs for a walk this morning, he followed us. Perfectly normal stuff. When the dogs took a crap in the field, he did likewise. We threw the ball for the dogs: he chased it with them. Still fairly normal stuff, so much so that I was perfectly expecting the cat to join us on our walk and join in with the games. Then I looked round and saw we were being followed by one of the chickens. The chicken then proceeded to chase and try to attack one of the dogs. Apparently, she does it all the time. She has just taken an irrational dislike to Murphy, who is rather perplexed at being repeatedly stalked and bullied by a chicken. And who can blame him? By this stage, I'm wondering what we would look like to strangers, two humans taking two dogs for a walk, accompanied by a cat who thinks he's a dog and by a chicken hell-bent on beating up a black labrador.<br /><br />Then I went to see my friend Jo. Jo lives on a big secluded farm surrounded by fields and orchards. She had offered me free fruit with which to make yet more jam. We take a walk around the grounds so that she can point out all the gazillions of fruit trees to me. Her black labrador (Murphy's grandfather, in case you were wondering) accompanies us. He runs ahead, positions himself below a branch of a bramley apple tree and then launches himself virtically into the air, deftly catching an apple off the branch as he does so. Now I know where Henry's apple-thieving tendencies come from - he has been bred from a long line of apple-thieving pikey dogs (and expensive ones at that). We continue our walk, which takes us past Jo's flock of sheep. There in the corner, far away from all the other sheep, is the black sheep of the family. Her name is Ba Ba Black Sheep and she was hand-reared after her mother died in child birth. Hand-reared in a house full of black labs. As we walk past her she runs over to the fence, sticks her head through the fence posts, wagging what remains of her tail as she waits to be stroked by Jo and nuzzled by the dog. This sheep thinks she is a black lab and can't understand why she has to spend her days in a field full of white fluffy animals.<br /><br />And this reminds me, the first time I met Jo she was living in my parents' village and she was walking her pet sheep (Lollipop, as her friends knew her) on a dog lead. Lollipop lived in the house, liked to get on people's laps for cuddles and also thought she was a dog.<br /><br />I have one question for the people and animals of Norfolk: what the fuck is going on??Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-59653639780699661642007-08-19T16:24:00.000+00:002007-08-19T16:33:45.714+00:00Night TerrorsJames is starting to accumulate evidence of my mental demise, so that it will be easier for him to have me sectioned under the Mental Health Act. Apparently, it's just his way of showing he cares. And he is, after all a doctor, so must know what is best for me.<br /><br />Last night, I provided him with more evidence.<br /><br />The time was approximately 3 am. Our peaceful sleep was broken by a yelp, which allegedly came from me. I then sat up in bed, hyperventilating somewhat, my heart racing. In my semi-conscious state I was terrified, and desperately looking around the room, trying to locate the window for a source of light. In the midst of my panic, Jamie's calm voice asked me if I was okay. "NO!" I said, extremely agitated, "I have absolutely no idea where I am!". He gently told me that I was in my bedroom, at the cottage. "Oh", I said. And promptly put my head back on my pillow and fell fast asleep.<br /><br />I told my sister. "Night terrors", she informed me: "children get them all the time".<br /><br />Well, I bet children don't preceed their night terrors with dreams like mine. I dreamt that I was in an open prison which was rather like a secondary school. James needed to talk to me in private and the only suitable place for our conversation was a toilet cubicle. Like the toilet cubicles they have in secondary schools, all linked up with gaps over and below the doors. A nice setting in which he chose to inform me that he considered me a whore. "A whore?!", I asked, obviously rather upset and confused, "but why??". "Because", he growled at me, "despite all my explanations, you still can't remember how an air rifle functions".<br /><br />Worrying, very worrying indeed. <br /><br />And when I woke up this morning, there was a bunny in my garden, munching contentedly on a clover patch. "God, I wish I had an air rifle", James said, as my eyes widened in terror...Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214526.post-81459195070070113402007-08-11T07:22:00.000+00:002007-08-11T07:33:04.783+00:00WildlifeOne thing about living in the country is that we live in close proximity to all sorts of wild critters. We have tawny owls nesting in the field behind our house - and who can blame them with all those bunnies that graze on the field every afternoon and evening (I swear, it's like Watership Down) - we have bats snapping up the insects that hover outside our living room window, attracted by the light, and I see water voles, stoats and hedgehogs in the country lanes at night. And then there are the spiders. I'm trying to remain calm about the spiders, as I have a husband who jumps on the first sign of a phobia (ask Simone - he's threatening to post her his dismembered toenail). In an attempt to be friends with the spiders, I have started naming them. All the really big ones are called Simon, the spindley ones are called Stephen Greenblatt and we also have the occasional Arthur and Brian. You can't be scared of something called Arthur, right? <br /><br />Well, let me tell you something. You fucking well can when it's in your fucking bed at night! Oh yes, last night, just as I was dozing off, my whole body wrapped in duvet to protect me from the freezing summer night-time temperatures, I feel something move on my arm. My arm that is UNDER the duvet! It is a spider! An Arthur sized spider! (I am grateful, incidentally, that it wasn't a Simon-sized one - praise the Lord for small mercies.) A spider in my bed!! And there was me, still glowing in the warm aftermath of a particularly satisfying muffin-baking session, feeling rather smug about becoming a country girl. Well, no-one mentioned there would be spiders in my bed. I'm sure I didn't sign up to that. <br /><br />I am going to write an immediate letter of complaint to the Women's Institute. Something, my friends, should be done. Well, it's just not right, is it?Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05392310209041179455noreply@blogger.com1