Douche Bonnet

Regular readers will already know this, but habitual lurkers (you know who you are; my counter's been collecting stats about you) or newbies looking for 'my left boob' (still the most-searched for item on this site) may not yet know that my sense of humour really is rather juvenile.

Whilst my French is limited to hello, goodbye, thank you and an ever-increasing range of charades that I'm prepared to act out in front of perplexed strangers, it is still the word 'douche' that never fails to amuse.

It was 'Jovial Douche' shower gel last year that saw me giving it to all of our house guests and, of late, it's been the Bonnet de Douches that's been snaffled from every hotel we've stayed in.

Shower caps, yes; but Douche Bonnets....?!  How can I not snigger at that and then, pondering my recent whinge about feeling grumpy and stumped, not take up PlasMan's idea to "Tell me - and the world - what YOU think is rubbish - and why."

Sapphire regularly accuses me of being overly judgmental of teenagers and of laughing too loudly at drunk uncles falling over in 'You've Been Framed' wedding clips, so it seems right to have myself feature as the first Douche Bonnet in the hopes that on a semi-regular basis my knickers will get twisted up enough to write about other people/trends/issues/behaviours that also require a public session under the scornful shower cap.

As such, I'm telling the world that I'm rubbish (or slightly, as even my bruised ego is aware that some good points are to be found) at being ........ not jealous.

This is a tough one to admit to, but jealousy is only ever evident to me after I've had a rant, been a bit bitchy, made a snarky comment (usually to Love Chunks or Sapphire) and then, seeing their slightly disapproving reaction(s), realise that it's all down to being more than just a tad envious.

Blogging is the issue that highlights my worthiness to be the first to don the Douche Bonnet.  A bugbear of mine concerns comments.  I'll admit that my knowledge of blog etiquette is minimal, but if someone is generous enough to take the time to read and then add a comment to my blog, I'll click on their link to see if they also have a blog and comment on one of their recent articles as an acknowledgement.  Then, if their blog is one that appeals to me, I'll add them to my regular reading list and keep on visiting and commenting.  After all, what blogger/writer, doesn't enjoy feedback?  Comments are, in my minuscule, jealous mind, the way of spreading the love back and forth and is the reason why I feel mightily pissed off when my comments are either never returned or even responded to, especially if the blogger is directly answering other commenters. My inner Douche Bonnet begins to inflate with annoyance.  Bloggers want comments, so surely they should do the same for others...?

So, when a blogger (and friend) recently announced via another form of media that they've revamped their long-forgotten blog and now want everyone to 'like' them and recommend their site to all their friends so that they can attach some advertising and make some money, my Douche Bonnet fogged up even further with an unattractive combination of 'who the hell do they think they are' and 'what do you think I've been trying to do for seven years' with a side order of 'so you think you can achieve what three billion of us already out there can't?'

The bonnet blew up bigger still when my elephant memory reminded me that the revamped blogger hadn't left a comment on mine in years....!

"You read far too much into things," says Love Chunks, not looking up from his iPad.

"It's hardly a life or death situation, is it, Mum," snorts Sapphire, packing her school things.

They're both right.  I deserve to be publicly exposed as the inaugural designated Douche Bonnet and learn to get over it and not blame my irrational envy on being in week three of a six week self-imposed no-sugar detox un-fun abstinence experience.  Either that or find out the hard way how difficult it is to remove both my head - and the now-desecrated Douche Bonnet - from out of my arse.

Scenes from a Genevan restaurant

"No wonder Simon and Gianna wanted to meet us here. It's actually modern," exclaimed Sapphire as we asked for a table to seat 'cinq' people and waited for the other two to arrive.

"I'll order a bottle of Rose. Everyone likes Rose and it'll go with pretty well any sort of Italian food."

Love Chunks surveyed the scene and then the menu, wincing as he did so. "Well, each dish is helping them pay for the renovations."

Sapphire, looking beautiful in her own chosen ensemble of skirt, boots and cute top, rolled her eyes. "Dad, that's Geneva for you."

He smiled. "You're right.  I'll try a glass of Cotes du Rhone red----"

"-----And I'll have a glass of that orange Aperol stuff, see?" Pointing wildly at a couple in the corner, "Remember me drinking it all the time last year in Germany...?  They've just ordered the same drink, which is the first time I've seen it here. I love that stuff!"

"Yes Kath/Mum," my two favourite humans chorused.

Gianna and Simon arrived, glad to see that we'd snaffled a table. "There's already a queue outside and it's only a quarter to seven," she said, sipping on the Rose. "What the....?" she swallowed only because it would be impolite to spit inside. "I'm sorry but this is awful!"

Simon and LC agreed.  "Never fear, I'll drink it," I said, worrying more about the cost of the wine and inwardly cringing at it going to waste.

"Peach iced tea for me, please," said Sapphire.  "Hey Mum," she whispered, tapping my arm. "Don't look now - I said DON'T LOOK - but one of the chefs over there has the Colosseum tattooed on his arm."

"So he has. No prizes for guessing where he's from." The completed half litre orange Aperol and first glass of Rose were working their magic. "So. Pretend that your life depended on getting a tattoo - on your upper arm, so it's mostly visible - of a landmark or living thing to represent yourself, what would it be?"

"Certainly not the Opera House," Sapphire said before turning to place her order.

"A flower of some kind," said Gianna. "Seeing as this year my birthday has a zero in it, I have been giving it some thought but haven't got as far as decided what flower."

"My girls," Love Chunks said, "but how awful would that look?"

"The Southern Cross for me," was my contribution. "It's time we took it back from the brain-dead bogans."  Sapphire shook her head in disapproval. "Mum, they'd just think you were their big white nanna."

"A British Bulldog," Simon said decisively. "But to overturn the racist element of it, I'd have him smiling, sitting on top of the Tower of London and wearing a Shamrock around his collar. My mum would like the shamrock."

It was then that we noticed the two real dogs in the restaurant.  The one closest to me was still a puppy and resembled our Milly crossed with a kelpie and a whippet and a whimsical dash of shrunken golden retriever.  Glass number three had me lean back and slur slightly, "Love your dog. What is she?"

"We're not really sure as she was a rescue dog from Austria," the man replied in a strong German accent.

At the table on the other side of us was a full-sized Boxer, his back almost the same level as the table.  Arse facing us, we were treated to an eyeful of his baked potato-sized bollocks.  Turning to face us (which we were all relieved about), he presented a very handsome but slightly huffy face.  His nose inevitably found her:  the cute Blonde Bitzer I was currently enchanted with.  His paws scrabbled on the shiny floor to reach her, knocking against the legs of his owners' table. A sixty-something man, clearly the owner, grabbed the dog and roughly shoved his head under the table, cursing loudly.

"That seems a bit harsh," observed Simon. "The dog's only doing what is natural..."

I leaned back to my Austrian friend and pointed to a spot just behind Simon's left elbow.  "There's a boxer over there who is very keen to meet your dog."

"But he mustn't," he whispered, "As she is on heat."

A fourth glass was swirling inside me yet even I queried the wisdom of bringing a dog on heat to the most popular restaurant in our postcode, with tables almost touching and overloaded with stemmed glasses and bread baskets.  "Oh," I said, turning back to my friends.

By the fifth glass, Gianna had had enough.  The Italian fire in her soul - and inborn knowledge of the language - saw her plonk down her calamari and square up to the Boxer's bully.  Never a shy petal, Gianna was obviously giving the bloke a goodly piece of her mind in her mother's native tongue, gesticulating at the dog and pointing towards the Blonde Bitzer behind me.  The waiters quickly intervened and magically found the Boxer family a table against the counter, presumably so that the dog could be hidden underneath and only have one side to escape from.

Things now settled, we enjoyed the meal. The food was indeed superb and the increasingly loud conversation, yelled orders to the pizza chefs and clacking heels on parquetry were adding to the chaos.  A downed sixth glass made me brave enough to lean back on my chair - now being steadied ever-so-subtlely by LC - and ask the question. "Why is your dog on heat?"

"She was supposed to be neutered on Tuesday but started bleeding, so the vet says he can't do it until next week-----"

The Boxer was there!  He'd broken out of his pizza and pasta-prescribed prison and was about to........."NO!"  Despite the imminence of a violent sexual scene and three separate groups of diners in distress, the packed restaurant remained oblivious, carrying on their own chats over carpaccio platters and wood fired focaccias.  Admittedly, things were fairly hazy in my Rose-saturated state, but pizza crusts and prosciutto may have been proffered to encourage the besotted Boxer to forgo his attempts at rooting in a restaurant and crouch back under his table.

"I'm not sure that food would normally dissuade a determined guy that easily," Simon muttered.

Our meal was all over by a tame 9:30 pm and Sapphire kindly held my elbow to add an element of safety to my sterling impression of a toddler walking down a flight of stairs for the first time.  "I'm sorry love, but I haven't set a very good example for you tonight, have I?"

She paused for a moment before smiling. "A drunk Mum, Gianna gettin' game and dirty dogs - remind me not to get so dressed up next time."

OHS, Schmo-OHS

The above title sounds better when said out loud and, when applied to holidays, is usually said by me when it comes to food:

"Holiday weight, Schmoliday weight."

















Love Chunks managed to wangle the Thursday before and Tuesday after the Easter long weekend to give us six days in Spain.

Spain's a rather large patch of ground, so we decided to hit a smallish area and keep reminding ourselves that living in Europe for the next (at least) couple of years means that we can calm down and revisit or see more of the place later on.  Madrid and Barcelona were idly bandied about over a dinner party table a couple of months ago, but friends urged us to consider Seville.

Gianna and Simon, let this be a public declaration of sincere thanks for your advice.

Easter is the Holiest of Holy weeks in an extremely Catholic country and we were surrounded by hours and hours and days and days of parades that seemed to feature gorgeous young women wearing black lace mantillas as a sign of mourning for Christ's death and a heap of differently-coloured Ku Klux Klan members who were supposedly covering their faces to hide their sorrow.  No photos to show you as it didn't seem right to jump out and snap away at them during a time they took particularly seriously.

Honey toasts, deep fried and anointed in delicious syrups were an Easter treat that I inhaled eagerly, telling myself that having a freshly-squeezed Seville orange juice would sort of counteract the fat. (In Kath Land, an apple following a Kit Kat chunky means nothing was imbibed at all).  Not so easy to do the same for the aubergine 'fries' that were coated in a fine crumb and then drizzled - again - in honey. We were skeptical at first, but all raving and rolling our eyes in ecstasy several seconds later.




















Balconies were draped in red brocade, velvet and gold trimmings and the city was packed with people of all ages. No dinner to be had at 6:30, 7:30, 8:30 or even 9:30pm..... try 10:30pm with a few tapas to tide us over before then.  Toddlers were at outdoor tables eating with gusto near midnight as we walked home, bellies full and wondering just how we'd be able to lie down and sleep comfortably.



















Respecting their Christian celebrations aside, I'll admit to deliberately lining up my shot of this guy so that it looked as though he was praying for good BBC World News reception....

....and, yet again, an art work has to feature the single crusading female with a boob hanging out. As they inevitably do.....

Reluctantly driving out of Seville (thanks to Love Chunks and Ken, the tom-tom we brought over with us), we stopped at an intriguing lookout named Saucejo so that I could grab a photo of my best boy and best girl.

Ronda (the town, not the girl that the Beach Boys were keen to use as a rebound for heartbreak) took our breath away.  LC is a bit of a mountain goat and loves to clamber on things, so while he busied himself being King of the Valley, Sapphire and I took a selfie that you can clearly see reflected in my sunnies:

The bridge spans the deep rocky valley from the old town to a still very-old part of town that also has the largest bullfighting ring in Spain.  We all preferred not to see any bull being stabbed by a bejewelled ponce wearing ballet slippers for sport and instead decided to take the walk down to the base of the bridge.

This was where the difference between Occupational Health and Safety Australian-style compared to OHS Who Cares Spanish-style was glaringly obvious.

"Oh look, LC," I said, voice quavering along with my knees, "Under this temporary IKEA step ladder stapled to the moss on the rocks is the original cement staircase, cracked in half and collapsed. How comforting..."

"Hey Dad," a much-braver Sapphire called out. "The railings have rusted and you have to wedge yourself up against the side of the cliff so that you don't smash yourself on the rocks below. This is incredible!"

She was right.  The cement had long since crumbled down into the river, leaving a single iron bar jutting out like a hangman's frame, a visual reminder that the path was once a metre wide instead of several centimetres.  Around the corner, a stone hut was teetering dangerously into the drink and as my two beloveds dashed eagerly ahead, my feet refused to move and I found myself staring straight ahead in a self-imposed trance. I was convinced that if I stayed motionless, the return trip around the cliff and back up the rocks would be achievable if only my ragged breathing-with-a-squeak-at-the-end would cease...

"Ma'am? Hey, Ma'am? Can you take a photo of us please?"  Four young US college students were on top of the death trap cottage and one was dangling his canon down to me via the strap.  "Er sure," I rasped, my shaking hands making several misses before finally catching the strap.  Later, there was a tiny sense of satisfaction in passing them all on the climb back up to town, but fitness wasn't really the factor; fear was.

In Granada, Sapphire's tiny balcony provided a rather lovely view.

Beauty aside, it wouldn't be a Kath-splattered holiday if some signs and mistranslations didn't tickle my giblets.  Colon Street, Tourism Colon and even a sign pointing to the turn off to Morón de la Frontera.  There were times when I thought that I should have headed in that direction and many more when I'd gladly have shown other people the way.

In France, the 'Do Not Disturb' sign hung on hotel doors usually translates to 'Do not DERANGE me,' but in Spain it's 'Do not MOLEST me.'

Then again, as an Aussie sheila used to the Sharons and Narelles of the world and their 1970s/1980s-style insults, it could also be interpreted as being a Mole Star.  Personally, the first interpretation is my preferred one.

Vadge of honour

We were sitting in the car just outside the high school gate, having one of those conversations that both of us are not only enjoying, but also not wanting to end.

Sex.  To be more precise, recent concerns about the easy access of pornography and how it might affect the expectations of some teenagers. 

"Is a guy going to expect someone with inflatable duck lips who is automatically able to writhe around like a pole-dancer whilst wearing more on her feet than her entire body?  Will he also expect her to provide some oral pleasure and be instantly amenable to letting him enter her, erm, 'back door' the second he walks - usually naked and in a highly visible state of excitement - into the room?"  That was my question by the way, not my daughter's.  It seems so long ago when a 'Do you like me - tick yes or no' note was handed around in year eight geography.

Sapph spoke of recent discussions they've held in Humanities on the issue.  Will the never-ending availability of sex and sexual acts online give some kids and teenagers a completely unrealistic idea of what 'real' life relationships are going to be like?  Will the saturation of 'take it, bitch' clips readily on hand (often when you don't want them - don't try a google search when your spelling isn't up to scratch) completely dissolve the idea of having sex between two genuine human beings with a back story and shared respect and real passion?

Our conversation then took a slightly different direction.  "And what's so attractive about male genitalia anyway?  They just dangle there to make 'ooh that would have hurt' or nutcracker jokes for at least half the videos submitted to 'You've Been Framed.' And with something always 'there' it must surely always be demanding some attention. How could you keep your mind of something that moves of its own accord?"

Nodding, I replied, "Yep. No wonder boys play with them so often: they're easily accessible and very easy to please."

Laughing, Sapphire commented that the girlie bits weren't so flash to peek at either. "But they're on the inside, at least, so unless you grab a small mirror, they don't bother us as much."  She paused for a moment. "That is, unless you're really flexible gymnast like Juliet, but if that was me, I'd think of better things to take a closer look at."

This all reminded me of a stand up routine by Ben Elton way, waaaaay back in the 1980s when he too commented on the ugliness of mankind's rude bits. "He said that no architect had ever been so inspired by the male appendage that he had to design a building with bulbous veins and a purple domed roof on the top."

"Then again Mum, has anyone ever described the inner vadge as resembling a stack of sliced roasted meats, as you did to me once?"

"Yep, sweet pea, I did.  Yet again, there's no Opera House or scenic bridge that is based on our mounds of Venus, dear heart."

Despite this grotty talk, my spirits were flying high. I loved that she and I could have these kinds of brutally honest chats, using humour to soften the horrors of growing up and swimming safely past the bobbing icebergs of peer pressure, internet unreality and heightening hormones.  I loved being witness to her insight and ways of viewing the world around her.  I loved seeing her throw back her head and laugh in delight; a combination of relief and joy at being able to goof off with her mother before tackling Design & Technology class.  

I was warming to the theme. "And don't get me started on those over-inflated party balloons that are supposed to represent the average woman's breasts," I exclaimed, pushing both hands out in front of my own chest, as if they were struggling to keep hold of two heavy bowling balls.

"MUM," Sapphire hissed. "You have just impersonated a woman with enormous boobs right outside the entrance to my SCHOOL.  Could you BE any more embarrassing?"

Sadly, yes.

But then again, so can she.  Sapphire leaned in through the car window. "Oh geez, I've just given myself a major wedgie sliding out of the car and now have a long walk across the quadrangle where all the windows are facing!"

She'll be fine.

Bonza blogger River from Drifting Through Life has carried on the Sunday Selections tradition of sorting through photos yet to be seen on your blog, posting 'em up and explaining why.

Being very new to the world of smartphones, I've had a ball taking snaps of anything and everything that takes my fancy. No worrying about lugging around the heavy SLR in a big black bag that screams, "I'm a tourist! Come pick my pockets" or the smaller digital version that Love Chunks insists is his and his alone. "Where is MY camera, the one that *I* bought?"

To be fair, though, these have mostly all been placed on Facebook and it's very easy to click the link, add a line (a slight challenge with my man-sized fingers that end up pressing 'ASD' instead of 's') and posting it up.

A 'selfie' taken slurping coffee on our balcony during a blizzard. My cup was topped with snow by the time I took a picture that was acceptable to share with anyone, so try and imagine those that were rejected.

Milly in front of at least twenty discarded Christmas trees, left by the big bins near our apartment.  Silly season was well and truly over.

On the Number 22 bus to the UN stop. I tend to select the double seats near the 'accordian' divider of the bus so that Milly has space to sit but she is terrified of the moving circular floor, undulating folded curtains and how it bends......
















......and usually, therefore, ends up cowering under the seat.  This maneouvre provides an additional bonus in that fellow travellers feel sorry for her and she ends up receiving loads of pats, coo-ed endearments (in French) and ear ruffles.

















Milly's nemesis: a fellow apartment-dweller, the Tabby Cat.  She enjoys sitting on the heaters in the lobby on cold days and the vantage point gives her plenty of notice to escape when Milly eventually spots her.  The cat watches as my darling dog's paws skitter on the marble floor before she ends up slamming into the glass.  She eventually recovers her poise only to see puss out in the garden looking disdainfully triumphant.

She can only be photographed (and petted) up close by me when Milly's not around.  On warmer days she perches in the enormous flower beds, waits for Milly to see her and automatically jump up in response only to have her nose swiped at by the cat before she shoots off.  It is only when Milly smells squirrels in the trees that she ignores the cat.

Milly with her sleepover buddy, Alfie the chocolate lab. Milly is NOT nice to other dogs; making it very clear that she'd prefer a world where she is the only canine and all homosapiens adore just her, but she's slowly getting used to seeing Alfie. He is the perfect host and when she visits him at his abode, he trots over with a toy in his mouth to offer her.

She snaps at him - "Don't YOU be taking liberties with ME!" and he wanders off with a "Whatever, lady," response to the other side of the living room.  Eventually Milly climbs down from her high horse, gives his butt a careful sniff and they're friends again.  Alfie is a patient and true gentleman.

Two friends found in the park that Milly can tolerate. 

Sometimes, our dog does have cruelty inflicted upon her.  Forced to wear a bra whilst enduring Sapphire's and my ridiculous laughter is not fun.

Then again, being my 'secretary' during freelance writing gigs isn't too bad.

G-strings, doggie winter coat version.

Rebel dog. When we first moved here, I saw the red circles with dogs in them and thought, "Wah hey, they welcome dogs here - a garden just for them!"  Fratman the concierge soon set me straight. Red circles don't have to have a line through them to mean 'no.'  It is with great thankfulness that Milly has a section of the garden filled with trees, bushes and lively squirrels where she is allowed to whizz and play.

Sapphire likes taking 'anti-selfies', partly to make fun of various FB 'friends' that take photos of themselves at their very, very best and caption them with 'I'm so ugly,' the universally-recognised plea for compliments or the 'Look at the snow outside' pose when the majority of the screen is filled with their figure artfully on show to display everything at its best.  

"But surely, Sapph, sometimes you could put a photo up that shows you looking, if not show-offy, at least a bit normal?"

She then gave me a lesson in how the Show Offy Gals do it: tilt the phone so that the eyes become enormous:

Ah. Imagine her halfway in between.

Sometimes, a purchase just has to be made, despite much eye-rolling from Love Chunks.

A Swiss marmot, ready to hike in the snow, on a bottle of wine.  Three euros.  And yes, I will drink it.

And, drum roll please for the phinal phone photo:

WHO made the yellow snow?
Milly did!

Pants. Seat of

So the tumour is 4.4 millimetres which is genuinely micro in terms of what is allowed to live behind your eyes at the base of your brain. 

Blood tests are imminent, as are some acupuncture sessions to persuade Mr Migraine to bother someone with a 'macro' tumour who is not a nice person, or Tony Abbott; whatever's easiest.  Nothing unfamiliar for me to worry about, but I won't be upset at not having to wake up with a faceful of Exedrin and go to bed with a codeine nightcap.

On to nicer things.

As regular readers would have guessed, we Locketts are not known for wild and crazy purchases.  Darling DeLonghi coffee machine was Love Chunks' essential buy, as was my treadmill (used for hanging damp bedsheets on when my Achilles is playing up, but gratefully used again today after the flu symptoms have largely gone); and Sapphire seems pleased enough with her H&M threads that are, thankfully, viewed as acceptably cool by even the rich kids at her school. No, she's not one of them.

So, when LC suggested we pop into the city to get him a skiing helmet and then a coffee, I was only mildly interested in going.  Enjoying his company was the only reason that got me onto the tram, as Manor in January Sale mode is not a fun activity.  Rich Genevan women are just as aggressive when fighting over cheap knitwear as pensioners in Harris Scarfes.

But then, we saw them.  Vertical lines of gleaming new skis, column after column after column.  Prices were reduced by fifty percent and nearby the helmets lurked, the perfect size for LC's rather compact-sized noggin. In a split second, he shoved one on my small-sized skull as well. It fit like a glove, even if I did resemble a black billard ball with green boogers for eyes.  Damon came over and pointed upwards to a sign dangling from the ceiling. "Take another twenty per cent off everything."

We were hooked.

An hour later, we farewelled Damon, our new best friend, and sidled rather awkwardly out of the sports section and up the escalators to the tram stop, laden with two sets of skis, poles, boots, helmets, waterproof pants (LC), goggles (moi), carrier bags and gloves.

"I'm frightened now," I whispered to him on the tram. "This means that I'm committed, doesn't it?"

He answered only with a big, smug grin.

And so, Sunday saw us get up at the crack of seven AM to meet up with four other crazies in Crozet to ski.  My fumbling fingers nervously tried to zip up my warm boots, idly noticing the appropriateness of the brand......

...... and hoping that the rest of my gear would somehow camouflage me so that when I invariably fell people would only see a foolish beginner and not some clueless knob in brand new clobber.

Having endured several weeks of migraine, flu, uncertainty, unfair disagreements and friends suffering all manner of awful accidents and undeserved misfortunes, I wasn't feeling particularly brave when Steve pointed down the very steep, icy hill and said, "Yes, it's a shocker of a way to start, but if you can survive this, you can survive anything."

Off he whooshed, grace and style packed into a six-foot-four fifty-something frame.  Twenty year old Chrissie bravely jumped off next, youth and confidence instantly remembering the first and only skiing she'd done in year eight; and Pommy bloke Tim and LC stood next to me.  "Just follow us and take your time. We'll wait for you."

And wait they did. All four of them. They must have desperately wanted to go for red runs over my sedate green and blues but not once were there any obvious signs of boredom or impatience or eye rolling.  My skills were the bottom of the barrel to their shiny apples floating on top but they generously peppered me with praise, provided some useful (and non patronising) tips and truckloads of encouragement.

It wasn't the horizontal snow storm, bracing winds or lingering cold that caused my eyes to fill with tears; it was the realisation that I was gliding down what was a summer road now all powdery white, edged with nothing but Christmas card pine trees and silence.  Tim saw me get out the tissue. "This is what we all moved here for," he said, Russian hat-flaps flying like beagle ears in a BMW as he slid past.

By lunch time and eight runs down the hill with Lake Leman glinting in the distance, I was triumphant: not one fall.  Even light-on-his-feet Love Chunks had almost gone for a gutzer but miraculously managed to save himself by doing a rather good version of the splits in his polyester pants. He swiftly recovered to zoom ever onwards. 

Sadly, as in all good stories, my reckoning was yet to come. With a belly full of hot chips, raspberry tart and pineapple juice, my nemesis was waiting: the six-person, open air chairlift.  This souless set of mechanical seats was encrusted in ice physically and spiritually, accepting no fumbles or clueless newbies. The other four were standing on the right mark, butts poised, ski poles in hand. I can't honestly recall where my feet, arse or poles were positioned but obviously not correctly.  

WHAM! the foot rests of the chairlift smacked me flat to the ground and somehow my brain had enough functioning cells to force me to stay lying there as the cruel metal contraption ran lightly over me and continued on its merry way, my four faithful companions now swinging over the peaks and waving frantically at me. "No worries," I croaked, "I'm fine."

Queueing onlookers may not have cared so much for my well-being as my clumsy collapse caused the entire lift to shut down when an attendant hoisted me to my feet, found my left ski several metres away and shoved me onto another one with a taciturn Italian snowboarder. 

"You eez new to these sport, eh?"  Er, yes, as it happens.  He pointedly started the other way for the remainder of our journey to the mountain top.

Reckonings continued as I discovered just what veterans of the slopes mean when the body says 'no more, even if you think you've still got the energy for it and the light is still good.'  By 3pm, my legs and arms refused to obey even the simplest of commands and my considerably-large rear end ballooned even larger as  my pants filled out with fresh scrapings of snow after each skidding cartwheel.  LC rescued me many times, my limbs now actively declining to function - let alone assist him - to lift my reluctant weight out of the side of the mountain and back up onto two thin planks of forgiving plywood.

With a slightly dented right-hand pole and ice shavings in my eyebrows, it was time to call it a day.

"I was so proud of you up there," Love Chunks said, swishing over in his waterproofs to try and fit his arm around my goose-down-packed parka-clad waist. 

"Me too," I replied, feeling the beginnings of a bruise on my knee and elbow.  "When are we doing this again?"

November Knob head?

I'm an idiot.

Most likely very arrogant.

Undoubtedly vain.

And incredibly optimistic.

I've decided to have a go at National Writing Novel Month or NaNoWriMo for short.  November has been allotted for all aspiring novelists to vomit up at least 50,000 words by the end of the month.  Really it should now be called International NoWriMo because it has spread way beyond the US and has done so for a number of years now.  Never mind; I'm wasting precious time....

Word count is key: not editing or quality or re-writes or second - let alone final - drafts.  

As the (old and ageing) Princess of Procrastination, InNoWriMo (as I'm now going to refer to it) might be the only way that one of my three ideas for a novel gets done.  The one I've selected is not likely to bowl anyone over with surprise or knock 'em out with creativity or insight, but somehow seems to be the one that's been calling me over the past few weeks; begging me to give it some time and effort.  

Of course, this ridiculous challenge falls within a month of appointments, commitments already made, floors so filthy they crunch when you walk on them, Love Chunks being overseas for two weeks and thus conferring temporary Single Mother status on me and ..... Sapphire's stomach issue rearing its ugly, unwanted and undeserved head again.

The pain, exhaustion and white-faced fatigue has returned for her.  Three days off school so far and a few minutes ago she went dejectedly back to bed, knowing that unless a miraculous turnaround occurs tomorrow she won't be cooking my birthday cake or having her best buddy over to stay.

In fact, when Elmo is invited into her bed, it's clear that she's sick. Not that she'll let me show you the photo I took which would have left you with a much nicer visual image to continue your day with than the mental nightmare of me being handed a pair of sterilised rubber gloves and a syringe by the doctor in order to obtain a special 'sample' for the Zurich clinic that left both Sapphire and myself horrifed and doubled over laughing at the same time. "Good!" I gasped, "Stay that way and make it easier for me!"

Results come back next week and, until then, I have a poorly teenager and a dog who is already bearing the brunt of said teen's handiwork:

Wish us all luck....