The Frumplingtons

Put the flag out: we have just mown our lawn!

Correction: Shana mowed the lawn; I merely minced about with a pair of edging shears.

At one point, Shana seemed to be getting dangerously close to me with the mower. My shoes started to get nervous.

“Oi, watch out!” I yelled. “I’m wearing me best pumps!”

Like all chores, though, it felt much better once we’d got the job finished and could come in for a cuppa and a good old moan.

“That lawn’s a real nuisance to mow,” grumbled Shana. “It’s not flat. It’s bumpy — a centimetre high in some places and three inches in others.”

That’s all we need, I thought. A lawn that’s a mixture of both metric and Imperial. I wonder: will we ever cope?

It was a moment of sheer stupidity, I came downstairs yesterday carrying not one, but two glasses. Our stairs are not carpeted and I’m always very careful making my way down, especially as there is a nasty turn at the bottom where the stair narrows.

Obviously I wasn’t careful enough…just a few steps short of arriving safely in the hallway I slipped. One glass went flying, I held onto the other, and landed with a crash on to the base of my spine. My left leg calf muscle twisted and I just sat there screaming in pain.

Chris was a total sweetie, he cleared all the glass up, then once everywhere was clear, helped me to my feet, well foot, I couldn’t put my left leg down. Now I’m a stubborn old sod and I wasn’t about to spend the day limping around, so very gingerly I worked my leg until it eased up a bit.

But my back is another matter. It was already damaged from a horse riding accident when I was a kid, now I am in excrutiating pain, I can’t sit down and relax, so I have to perch. And when I stand up again, the pain shoots up my spine.

And I don’t care if this is nothing more than moaning, I have a right to moan, in fact I have a right to scream…so block your ears…AAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!

That’s better

Forward planning is one of my greatest skills, as you might be able to tell from this snippet of conversation from earlier tonight:

“I’ll put some eggs on to boil and then we can have hard-boiled egg sandwiches for lunch tomorrow.”

“OK.”

(Riveting, isn’t it? I could have been a Hollywood scriptwriter.)

The eggs had been in our fridge for a week but were still a few days away from their best-before date. To look at them, though, you’d think they were still fresh; maybe it’s something to do with the feathers.

Poor Shana. She’s traumatised. Wanna know why? Well, two days ago she found out…

(I can hardly bring myself to type this.)

…she found out that she shares a birthday with…

[Takes deep breath before resuming post. P’raps it’s better just to type it real fast and have done with it. Right, here goes.]

…with…

[Gulp!]

…with…

…Amy Winehouse!

Phew! That’s better. I feel fine now.

(Shana doesn’t, though.)

The Senior Frumplingtons came over this morning, it being Father’s Day. It’s hard to believe Pa Frumplington will be seventy next year. He’ll have to curb his wild ways by then; no more fighting in the street, no more staying up till the end of News at Ten, and no more of those all-night cocoa benders he’s so fond of.

The SFs brought us a huge pile of family photos. Here’s one of me, aged somewhere around five or six years old (I think), riding a rocking horse. I might not be able to fit into the outfit any more, but some might say I’m still a bit of a cowboy at heart.

Yeeeee-hah!

Our kitchen looked like a scene from the Mary Celeste. Milk bottle left out; bowl of cereal abandoned; coffee cups with coffee and sugar already in them, waiting for the hot water that might never come.

“Pass me the field glasses!” I said, still puffing from my three-yard dash between kitchen and living room. “There’s a little bird sitting on the fence opposite the kitchen window, and I think it might be a finch!”

I was right. It was a goldfinch. A fluffy little fledgling. Not a rare bird, though, but it was a big deal to us, because it was only the second finch we’d seen in over a year. It’s easy enough to spot big birds like crows, jackdaws and magpies. But you need binoculars if you want to see finches hiding, effectively camouflaged, in the trees.

And indiscreet use of binoculars can get you some funny looks.

So, for us, the best chance of seeing finches is if they come and see us. Their timing isn’t always so good, though. Fancy waiting till you’re in the middle of preparing your brekkie. I ask you!

Inspired (or maybe I should say ‘led astray’?) by Maureen Carlson’s excellent book, “Clay Characters for Kids”, I’ve had a bout of creativity. I used Plasticene, whereas Carlson uses polymer clay, but it’s having fun that’s important; not the technicalities. Here’s what I’ve produced.

My little Plasticene pony. Aardman Animations started out doing stuff like this, and look where they finished up.

Note the incised spiral markings on the shell and the smile on Snaily’s face, both done with a biro nib. If you want to try this yourself, you might find that a cocktail stick works better. A modicum of talent helps, too.

This robot is made from nothing but cube shapes. Frightening, isn’t he? Note also the presence of ‘colour bleed’. I made that up, but it sort of sounds right, doesn’t it? It just means that if you buy cheap Plasticene (like what we did), then you shouldn’t be surprised if some of the colour rubs off onto other pieces of Plasticene and you end up with everything the same sludgy grey hue. For the record, the colour also gets all over your hands and on the furniture; and if you have a pure white cat or dog, well, the best thing you can do while you do this sort of Plasticene modelling is put them in another room out of harm’s way for the duration.

It was fun, though, but I can hardly wait for next week: we’re finger painting on Tuesday!

Shana can be the most amusing company at times; take this morning as an example. On our way into town we had just passed the cheap fridge and cooker centre and were crossing Gowts Bridge. “Look at those trees,” I said to Shana. “They’re ash trees. Repeat after me: ‘ash trees‘.”

“Ash trees,” Shana replied, not knowing what was coming next. ‘Ash trees’, you see, sounds remarkably like a-tishoo!, a sure sign of a sneeze.

“Bless you!” I said.

At this point, Shana realised I had been playing a joke.

And scowled.

And maybe I should have left it there. But I didn’t. And lo! on the way home we once more had to cross Gowt’s Bridge. (It’s a darned long walk round if we try to avoid it, that’s for sure!)

“Look at those trees,” I piped up. “They’re ash trees. Repeat after me: ‘ash trees’.”

“Bulwarks!”** said Shana.

“Bless you!” I replied, slightly peeved but otherwise unfazed. But the message had finally gotten through. A joke can be funny once but, like the leather on the sole of a discount shoe, it can wear a bit thin in a very short time. We live and learn.

** For a translation of what Shana really said, go to Babel Fish and see if that’s any help to you.

We started a new jigsaw puzzle today. Two of the pieces were damaged so I put them on seperate pieces of sellotape awaiting repair. I carefully placed the pieces on top of the scanner, I thought they’d be safe there.

When I sat down this evening to check the mail, one of the pieces was missing. I called to Chris, “one of the jigsaw pieces has gone awol”. He came into the room “yes I found one on the floor, don’t know where the other one is” I had a quick look around, couldn’t see the other one.

Then Chris noticed something in his hair…the missing jigsaw piece was well and truly stuck in the ends!! I promptly accused him of trying to scan his hair, why I do not know, but he denied the accusation!

So both pieces are now safely back on top of the scanner…until Chris starts flicking his hair about again!!

For the record, Chris has very long hair, it won’t be long before he can sit on it!

We were doing some online shopping at Wilko’s the other day. Just a few bits and pieces, that’s all.

And suddenly, Shana noticed the amount on the bill. If we were superstitious we could have added a packet of Rolos to the order, you know, just to bring it up to a round number. But hey, what the hell! (Oops, me and my big mouth.)