The Frumplingtons

Burrrp!

(Oops, sorry, please excuse me…)

Just about recovered from our Christmas excesses, I think. We ate far too much — well, you’re supposed to, aren’t you? It’s what Chrimbo’s all about. I won’t list the entire menu, but it did include a delicious turkey dinner (plus plenty of luvverly sprouts) on Christmas Day itself and a pannetone pudding on Boxing Day. Yes, I know it sounds like a long time to wait between main course and sweet, but we did cram in a huge (and slobberingly moreish) trifle and half a tin of Qualitity Street (sic? yeah, you would be too after all that lot!) in between.

As you will have noticed from the above summary of our festive food intake, we know how to pace ourselves.

But, if you think we might have overdone it a bit, well our excuse is that we had to give ourselves a bit of a treat. Especially after our central heating boiler packed up not once but twice: once on 23rd December and once on Christmas Eve itself. The council (or, in this case, their contractors) came out promptly to see if anything could be done. They did leave a couple of hot air fan heaters to keep us warm over the Christmas period. And hot running watter (sic again) is now being supplied by our immersion heater. But it looks as if the boiler itself will have to be either ripped out or given a complete overhaul (or a good talking-to?) in the New Year.

So there you have it: the hand of Fate smacks us round the earhole on Christmas Eve and we are thus compelled to comfort ourselves with loads of nosh for the rest of the week. The only thing you might wonder about is how we could have known in advance that we were going to have these technological gremlins. Well, we must have known, mustn’t we? After all, the luxury pudd’n’ was ordered online a couple of weeks ago; as were most of our other festive goodies. It’s a bit of a puzzle, ain’t it? The only thing I can think of is that we must have the gift of precognition, or something. On the other hand, maybe there’s a simpler explanation: maybe we’re just a couple of greedy goblins with a talent for forward planning.

Turkey sandwich, anyone?

We enjoyed James May’s latest offering, My Sisters’ Top Toys, on telly this evening. Especially when he blew up one of his younger sister’s favourite toys, a plastic treehouse. May spent most of the programme pouring scorn on dolls and all things pink, but was suitably impressed with the artwork and lasting appeal of Ladybird books, the hitherto undiscovered potential of the Spirograph, and a cheap and tacky musical instrument in the form of a robot.

One bit of the programme did worry me a bit though. Apparently, Fuzzy Felt was definitely aimed at girls. (Ahem! I shall be having words about this with the Senior Frumplingtons when next we meet.)

However, James did make one little mistake: when demonstrating how Fuzzy Felt can unleash children’s imagination, he pointed to three shapes on a Fuzzy Felt background and said that the shapes could be interpreted as a space rocket. One of the shapes, said James, was ‘a rhombus’. Not being entirely sure of the facts on this, I decided to check. And, as I suspected, the shape in question was not a rhombus, but a trapezium. You see, you should never believe everything you hear on tv; especially not from a man who goes around blowing up toys.

The new Christmas tree has arrived. It has been less than 48 hours from placing the order to receiving the delivery. We certainly had no intention of struggling back from town through crowds of last-minute shoppers whilst carrying a six-foot tree in a box, so good old Tesco Direct has certainly made things much easier in that respect. We also ordered a load of LED lights and a box of baubles and other arboreal bling to complete The Look. The tree is now all decorated and twinkling merrily away. And Wanda (a Christmas bear who we rescued from a charity shop a couple of years ago) is sitting proudly on the top.

Er…is it time to open that big tin of Quality Street yet?

Shana was checking today’s telly listings on teletext. There’s never usually much on worth watching though, and today was no exception:

“It said ‘Live Cricket’ on the tv guide,” she said, “but when I went to see it, there was only a blank screen and a constant chirruping sound in the background.”

I thought about this for a full fifteen seconds, before eventually groaning. Evidently, I’m a bit slow on the uptake this morning.

The dumpster is fast becoming our second home this week: tonight, we had to get rid of two angel-wing begonias that had been attracting those horrible little fungus gnats. We have tried all sorts of things to discourage the gnats, but none of the methods you see recommended online have worked. So this evening we at last gave up the fight and binned the plants instead.

On a brighter note, our new Christmas tree should arrive tomorrow. I’d like to see fungus gnats try to nibble that: they’d probably die of plastic poisoning, the little creeps.

Well, whaddya know! Less than a week to go till Christmas, and our trusty (ha!) fibre-optic Christmas tree has stopped working. No pretty lights or anything. It’s just standing there looking like a plain old plastic tree. The dumpster beckons.

A replacement is on order.

For the last three days the pavement to the front of our house has been covered in frost. Only today has it started to thaw. The permafrost, Shana called it. Sounds about right to me. OK, we might not have had any ice storms round here recently. And describing our location as the tundra could be taking it a bit too far: the big sycamore across the road indicates that we are definitely still below the tree-line.

But whenever the temperature drops below parky degrees centigrade you can bet it won’t be long before you hear the odd hint coming from my direction. Subtle suggestions that it might soon be “time to ‘don The Woolly’”; this being a thick black chunky-knit cardie — a prezzie from Shana — in which I envelop myself, usually clutching a steaming mug of tea, while making loud Brrrr!!! noises and looking decidedly pathetic.

Whoever my distant ancestors were (and so far I’ve only managed to trace them as far back as the late 19th century) I suspect that the Frumplington family tree did not include many prominent outdoorsmen (although there were probably plenty of wimps). I am, therefore, despite the fact that:

1. I used to own a pair of camouflage trousers many years ago and,
2. Once bought a pair of thermal gloves from campers’ and hikers’ top shop, Millets,

most likely not related to the great Ray Mears.

And if he’s reading this (hello Ray!) he’s probably mighty relieved that I’m not.

Brrr! Can someone turn the heating on for a few minutes? It’s freeezing in here.

You can see some strange stuff on webcams (apparently), but this made us both laugh. It’s the cam at Bembridge airport on the Isle of Wight, and it’s high time someone got the swatter out, I reckon. I mean, just look at the date stamp on our screen capture. Two weeks ago and the fly’s still there. Hardly the best advertisement for international air travel, now is it?

However, Bembridge airport’s webcam is supposed to refresh every thirty seconds. I’m starting to suspect it might be stuck. The camera, that is, not the fly.

Although you never know…

Feeling a bit adventurous recently, I decided to try using a different search engine. You know, different from ‘the Big G’ (i.e., G**gle, for those who are having a hard time working out which one I’m blathering on about).

So I thought I’d try ask dot com.

However, no sooner had I put in my search (for ‘knots’, if you must know) I was confronted by (horror of horrors)…

…a pop up!!!

Here’s a screenshot:

(The red underline bit is my own emphasis.)

Two things sprang immediately to mind:

1. Most web users hate pop ups. (Well known fact No. 1)
2. You want twelve minutes of my time? Twelve minutes? Even the Big G never asks for that. Sorry guys, but in less than 12 nanoseconds I’d already left your site. There are other search engines, you know.

Spotted this in a local art retailer’s window the other day. It’s called ‘Hold On’, by Flemish artist Daisy Boman. Only one problem with it, as far as we are concerned: the price tag said £1200. (Ouch! and double ouch!)

Ahem…slightly out of our price range then.

So we’re going to make our own version instead. We’ve already got a space for it. Photos will be posted when we get round to doing it.