Beauty is in the eye of the beholder - get it out with Optrex

''ve just been reading comments to a post in another journal and it's made me come over a bit thoughtful. I'm posting my response here because it's going to get rather preachy I'm afraid and I don't think one should inflict that sort of thing on an unsuspecting fellow blogger.

So, the burden of the comments (not the original post) concerned the sincerity or otherwise of commenting on someone's else's dark-night of-the-soul type post with a mere *hugs*. Some commenters were of the opinion that such is the act of an unmitigated cad and a bounder, who cares nought for your pain and thinks only to boost their flagging ego with a spot of thoughtless self-publicity. Well, hang on there chaps, surely in this case insincerity is in the eye of the beholder. Unless you are acquainted with the person in Solid World and know them to be hugger or not, then you cannot be at all certain of their hugging motivation. A *hug* is a likely to be a genuine expression of heartfelt sympathy as it is a meaningless and self-serving gesture. Wouldn't you be happier in the long run if you assumed the former in all circumstances - an anti-*hug* stance hurts not the *hug*ger but the *hug*gee.

As a somewhat reticent Britisher, my equivalent of *hug* is more a sort of *tentative pat on the shoulder* and a muttered "there, there, old chap - now pull yourself together and we'll all have a nice cup of tea. Worse things happen at sea, what!" and who wants that kind of nonsense landing in their comments box as they weep bitter, weary tears of despair into their fine linen handkerchieves?

So, take the *hug* in the spirit you'd like it to have been given. Chances are, it was.

And now, open your hymn books and turn to page ...

And while we're on the subject of things technical, does anybody out there know how to make Thunderbird add a standard sig to emails? I'm usually pretty good at this kind of stuff, but have totally failed in this instance to work it out for myself.

Help me!

Ah, online technical support - you've got to love it.

A couple of weeks ago I contact the HP online help thingy* about an intermittent problem I have with my printer, explaining in some detail the steps I was having to take to correct this and asking if perchance there was an easier way. They responded with instructions that were not only deeply patronising in tone but also told me less than I already knew about sorting the prob out.

And now they are badgering me with emails like a lovesick suitor, begging me to tell them how they did - "Was I good? Did the earth move for you too, darling?". Frankly my dear, you were rubbish! So don't expect a second date.

* Ironically, it's called HP Total Care - my arse!

Seasonally Affected Disorders

All that mist-and-mellow-fruitfulness that was kicking around over the weekend triggered off a bad case of the earth-mothers*. This manifested as an urge to turn Saturday's marrow into Sunday's chutney. So off we went to Mr Booth's lovely supermarket for ingredients. Ingredients denied! At least, no cider vinegar and no stem ginger in syrup. And so I live to chut another day.

And while we're on the subject of supermarkets
This time last year-ish, in reply to a post bemoaning the lamentable quality of supermarket plums, a friend responded that: Plums are wonderous, when eaten after being picked from the ground beneath the tree on a sweltering day. Having done exactly that on Saturday in the orchard at Norton Priory, I have to say he's only right, godde love 'im.

* An overwhelming desire to e.g. bake bread, macrame some aubergines and knit one's own yoghurt

i thank You God for this most amazing

Have just returned from a visit to Norton Priory, one of the (very few) hidden gems of Cheshire. It lurks in all its green and garden-y splendour in the middle of a trading estate on the outskirts of Runcorn, a town normal noted for its utter lack of charm. But as far as tourist attractions go, Norton P has got a goodly handful of plus points - mediaeval priory ruins, rambling gardens, sculpture trail, tearoom and one of the most glorious walled gardens we've seen in a while. Oh, and a huge*, intact mediaeval statue of St Christopher. Fabulous!

Of course, today's glorious weather helped. It's been one of those clear, bright, end-of-summer days, with a "blue true dream of sky" and just a scattering of wispy clouds, when the sun is warm but not so hot that you have to take your cardie off and fan yourself with your hand in a Peter Kaye stylee, going 'oh, it's too hot. I mean, I like it hot but this is too hot'. A day when it sort of feels like it's still summer, even though everything's started to look decidedly back-endish, with leaves on the turn and berries so very much redder than they were a couple of weeks ago.

And I also bought a marrow.

* 3.37 metres apparently, which in imperial measurement translates as 'mossive'

You'll doubtless all be ecstatic at the news that the pneumonia vaccine did me no lasting damage. I had a bit of a poorly arm for a couple of days, a symptom with which I extracted maximum sympathy form Best Beloved on his return from Nottingham, but that's about all.

Meanwhile, back in Side-Effects Land, I turned to the BNF (that's the British National Formulary, not some ultra right-wing nationalist party) yesterday for some info on aromatase inhibitors, since the onc is probably going to transfer me onto one of these little blighters now that I am now officially old*. Was hoping against hope that these new johnnies might have fewer side-effects that Tamoxifen (which has never made me really ill, I must admit, but rather permanently uncomfortable). Well, no such luck - promised side-effects are much the same really, with the added bonus of alopecia and osteoporosis. Oh joy, oh bliss! Watch as I turn into a wizened, balding crone before your very eyes!

Still, it's better than having cancer.

And, leaving on a positive note, at the end of this month I'll be four years on from my original diagnosis and still cancer-free. Huzzah!

* i.e. menopausal

Spots before the eyes

Y'd think, based on the evidence of the past couple of days, that I was a big Hector's House fan, wouldn't you? Well, I'm not. Not really. I always found it a bit too twee and soppy for my more robust tastes (plus it was aimed at 4 year olds and I must have been well into my teens when it hit the screens). I was, however, moved to tearful nostalgia by a page on the same website about The Woodentops.

I loved The Woodentops, partly because one of the characters had the same name as me* (it's is a pretty big deal when you're three to have a TV star as a namesake, even if it is a wooden puppet) and partly because of the utter surreal fabulousness of Spotty Dog (the Biggest Spotty Dog You Ever Did See). I can still, old bones permitting (mine, not the Dog's), do a very passable impersonation of both Spotty Dog and Baby. Buy me a pint sometime and I'll show you.

*That's right - please refer to me as 'Mrs Scrubbit' from now on.

I blame the pneumonia vaccine

I'll tell you what, though. That half tub of yummy raspberry-and-vanilla-flavoured Alpro soya yoghurt I just chucked over my keyboard, desk and carpet is probably not going to do them a world of good.

Oh, what a clumsy old Hector I am!

And while we're on the subject

A million hearty thank yous to our dear friends Jen and Pete for lending us Blackpool, a series so good that when you get to the end you wish you hadn't seen it so you can see it for the first time all over again.

Tennant: Of Wild Fell Hormones

Have extracted a promise from Best Beloved that, were David Tennant ever to offer to snog the gob off me, I would be allowed to accept and still return the marital fireside with my honour unblemished.

What a very reasonable man he is (B. Beloved, that is, not D. Tennant, though he doubtless has his moments).

It's the Style, Miss

Whilst in town this a.m. I ventured into my local independent record store* to order a Little Something for our forthcoming holiday listening pleasure. Order was duly placed. Impulse buying of Style Council 'best of' CD also occurred. When I got outside, I remembered that I (a) already have a Style Council 'best of' LP and (b) will soon have a USB Turntable on which to convert said LP to digital splendour. Oh, what a silly old Hector I am!

*in line with a recent policy decision to stop sucking at the milky teat of corporate capitalism (Amazon and its ilk) in favour of supporting the many fabulous Independent High Street Shops of Great Britain (still just as capitalist, but a lot less milky).

Have just returned from The Quack's, having finally got round to having my anti-pneumonia shot (a privilege vouchsafed me by my right wheezy lungs*). On returning home I made the classic mistake of reading the list of possible side-effects and a now poised to keel over from any one of the following: swollen joints, low blood pressure, anaphylaxis, headaches, nausea, vomiting ...

* a couple of years ago, while laid low with a bout of bronchitis, I discovered the art of polyphonic wheezing - very melodic, m' dearios.

[Note to self: please find alternative to 'vouchsafed' - twice in two days is going the game a bit]

Best Beloved is away in Nottingham at some conference, so I'm living the single life until Friday. Spoke to him on the blower this a.m. - he vouchsafed that he had 'a bit of a beer head'. Oh dear! and him about to lead a workshop. Will he never learn?

I, of course, would never be so foolish as to drink far too much vodka at a conference and then have to spend the next day sleeping it off in the car in a back-street in Sheffield (because I had to check out of my room at 10am) - no siree, bob. For I am a creature of moderation and without flaw...

Oh, yes!

testing, testing, one,two, one two ... is this mike on?