Grand Wish List

Living with a Grand Designs fanatic, I feel well-acquainted with Kevin McCloud. As the show's exhibition recently came up on Groupon it seemed stupid not to make the most of the deal. I've never been to an Ideal Homes exhibition and was pleasantly surprised by the day, initially expecting very little.

On arriving, there was a ten minute walk between the car park and the show before we were pointlessly ushered in a loop back to the start where the entrance was situated. The show was split into four main areas: Garden, Interiors, Building and Kitchen/Bathroom with smaller food and design sections.

The Garden area and mini design/food sections were all personal favourites with some pretty innovative designs tempting my credit card. We made one preposterous purchase that I shall reveal in due course when funding permits its delivery. In the meantime here are some clever designs I rather like and have added to my lottery wish list:

An outdoor dining/sleeping pod, costing around five thousand.

A children's rocking horse made of recycled tyres.

Amazing walls clocks and furnishings made from plane parts.

A Dali style grandfather clock, costing well over ten thousand.

A six person outdoor sauna.

Another custom made Dali style clock, costing around thirty thousand this time!

Bus Belter

http://www.allposters.com/-sp/A-bus-is-an-accordion-Musical-notes-come-out-the-back-New-Yorker-Cartoon-Posters_i9170408_.htm

 “Is this a singing bus?” he optimistically asks our driver. I've already experienced the school gates being locked, prompting an annoying detour to get to the bus stop, Since arriving at my departure point I've just missed a bus and two scheduled have been “Out Of Service,” so at this point, I'm pretty keen to get home.

There are three of us on the bus and the driver. The rather eccentric elderly gentleman who's keen to sing his heart out, is having a chat with the driver as we await for our departure time:

“But is this a singing bus?” he continues to gauge. The driver unsurprisingly insists he's never known a bus purely dedicated to “singing”, despite our gents apparent certainty that the “Halton Moor” bus is indeed a “singing bus”. Stories of the old Headingley route and rare occasions of whole bus performances of “Bohemian Rhapsody” are regaled as the driver continues to politely humour said gentleman.

It is not long before he's turned to face us unsuspecting three. We're desperately trying to keep to ourselves while trying not to appear too interested. “Do you mind if I sing?” he asks. The girl at the back texts away pretending to be too busy to hear, the girl in front is deafened by headphones and I nod, dazed from a long day at work, attempting to keep the peace.

He very seriously belts our, “As Time Goes By” unaccompanied by any musical backing as if auditioning for X Factor's OAP series. He actually boasts a reasonable singing voice and unpainfully completes the entire song, finishing to silence and expectantly looking around as the last note leaves his mouth.

No-one says a word. I'm trying to focus on my paper, attempting to not make it obvious I'm fascinated and amused by the whole spectacle. For the next few minutes, there's an awkward silence while our performer proceeds to sing random verses from a selection of big name tunes. As the bus fills and gradually proceeds towards my destination, the whole incident fades and soon I'm the only one still inwardly chuckling at the musical interlude.

An annoying journey was quickly transformed to a memorable story and now I'm tempted to catch the “Halton Moor” bus, if only to discover whether sing-along buses still really exist or whether they are firmly a thing of the past as my bus driver confidently affirms. As random Yorkshire trips are a more recent weekend activity, old Halton may well be on the cards...

Still Time For Trashy Tales

Despite the sizeable stacks of ever-increasing exercise books and stamps for every eventuality that seem to perpetually surround me, I've still managed to keep up with the news this week. Among the daily headlines detailing horrors in Kenya and Syria, I came across several stories that could easily slip you by and need sharing...

Metro's front page told of a gifted student's attempt to rob a Liverpool branch of Barclays with a BB gun: http://metro.co.uk/2013/09/24/model-pupil-turned-into-police-after-carrying-out-video-game-style-bank-robbery-4104453/ 

Chessington theme park have employed style gurus, threatening the continuation of the leopard print trend: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-surrey-24240527 

Villagers in Shantou City in China's Guangdong province have befriended an escaped hippo with the aid of multiple cabbages: http://web.orange.co.uk/article/quirkies/Escaped_hippo_swam_out_of_flooded_zoo 

Fake penises and urine are apparently easily obtainable online; an Italian long-distance runner attempted to cheat a drugs test by purchasing said items: http://metro.co.uk/2013/09/24/italian-athlete-accused-of-using-fake-penis-to-deceive-doping-testers-4103884/ 

And a survey by Opinium Research has rather tellingly revealed 21% of men and 10% of women haven't read a book in the last year with 49% of those questioned claiming they don't have time to read: http://metro.co.uk/2013/09/25/only-one-in-five-knows-william-shakespeare-wrote-hamlet-4103304/

The Fate Loop Is Tempted

http://www.deviantart.com/morelikethis/46423174?view_mode=2

Back in the middle ages folk had the right idea when they warned against “talking of the devil”. Originally used as a threat against directly naming God's nemesis, talking about said figure or evil in general, these days the proverb has a new face - “tempting God” in the 1300s, “tempting fortune” in 1603 and more popularly “tempting fate” around 1700. My superstitious forebearers were of a more religious disposition than me and believed “speaking of the devil” would actually incite the horned “man”, therefore resulting in unfortunate consequences (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Speak_of_the_devil).

This week I've had a very unpleasant reminder of exactly how accurate said proverb can be. As I clicked on “update”, I turned to a colleague to breezily comment how awful a computer crash at that precise moment might be. Having spent a good hour and a half bumbling through an enormous professional development questionnaire on a website used by my new employer, I should have known merely verbalising my thoughts was “tempting fate”. OK, the computer didn't crash; instead, as soon as I'd saved the document and logged out, I returned to a rather empty proforma. Being a little paranoid I wanted to reassure myself my endeavours were safely logged. My actions failed to provide me with peace of mind, revealing a blank document that in the process proved I am indeed incredibly unlucky.

On countless occasions when my luck has failed, my generally ignored “gut” has often rather cleverly already predicted any negative outcomes. Today, I've made a personal vow to henceforth try to avoid stating any such negativity in order to perhaps escape repeat instances where fate is quite blatantly tempted to shaft me again. Feeling rather unlucky at present, I have to wonder whether the very act of writing this blog is already tempting fate?

Carousel Hell

“You'll have to knot it up if you need the loo,” beams a jovial voice as fellow passengers smirk in amusement at the train conductor's attempt to make light of an already testing situation. A sarcastic voice taunts me; “Welcome back to England,” it jeers.

“When it rains it pours”; my return journey to Inglaterra perfectly illustrated the idiom's meaning. An hour journey to Guatemala airport in order to get a three hour flight to Houston was followed by a two hour wait before another flight to Frankfurt. Nine hours later and I pottered around Frankfurt killing time before the final leg of my journey back to Manchester.

Another seven hours later and finally back on English soil and keen to get home, the queue for passport control loomed and the normal luggage collection fears kicked in. Already dubious I'd be reunited with my bag, the fear started to mount thirty minutes after the imminent arrival of our baggage was announced. Allayed by the cluster of fellow passengers also looking expectantly at the “carousel”, I'm still optimistic bed is in sight.

My gut instinct is unfortunately perceptive and five minutes after the last bag appears, there's still no obvious sign of my luggage. A lady in uniform confirms the obvious telling me there's no more baggage. The explanation is predictable: my bag has been held in Houston and will be returned to me by courier the next day.

Having already been awake for nearly thirty hours, I make it to Manchester airport's train station only to be told services are limited due to engineering works and I'll have to wait almost an hour until the next train. Running on a mixture of frustrated adrenaline and exhausted near hysteria, I board the train only to hear an announcement apologising that all the train's toilets are mysteriously out of service. “Welcome home,” says the man opposite me, mirroring my English sarcasm. When it rains it really does pour!

Bed is almost in reach. As I contemplate sinking into familiar surroundings, the tannoy announces the “mysterious recovery” of one of the train toilets and there's all-round chuckling. At least I'm finally less than two hours from home and won't have to cart much around or unpack on my arrival! Things are looking up...

Tips and Travel Lines

Perhaps if I was Japanese I'd have had palm surgery some months back and discovered then that booking a trip to Central America this August wouldn't be the best move financially. Maybe I'd have had the surgery even earlier and been able to look into the future to tell The Boy he'd need a doctor's check-up sooner in order to have the op in time. As I'm not Japanese, have only recently discovered palm surgery even exists and seriously question its point, I'm now about to go on our annual adventure on my own.

Having finally had confirmation from the specialist on Wednesday that The Boy is indeed not fit for travel or coverage on our insurance, I've been doing some last minute organisation. In the process, I've discovered a few useful tips for fellow travellers I thought I'd share before my departure. If, like me, you are venturing to foreign and occasionally somewhat remote climes with some time still before the off, the following may help:

1) Despite what doctors tell you, antibiotics are indeed accessible for emergency situations. Last summer's Morocco trip left me feeling pretty jealous when I suffered from some form of impenetrable stomach upset. My walking pharmacy was no armour against my ailment and while I visited a pricey Moroccan hospital, fellow trip chums easily recovered, having taken their supply of home-brought antibiotics. I, on the other hand, felt somewhat off for several days longer and had to take an alarmingly large number of strangely labelled drugs I'd been prescribed, including one called “Spasfon”.

Keen to avoid a repeat occurrence, I visited the doctor who after trying to put me off, gave me a private prescription, warning me I'd have to shop around chemists as additional dispensing costs would probably be a minimum of £20 for my antibiotics. Fear not – this information seems to have been yet another attempt by the doctor to deter me. The very pharmacy that partners my doctor's surgery and is indeed right next door, sold me said antibiotics for less than the normal prescription charge at a mere £4.

2) Never trust your bank to give you the best exchange rate. Having always banked with Natwest, I went to get some dollars and came out with rather a raw deal. Two hundred US cost me £181 of your English pounds. Returning home, I checked the exchange rate and as suspected found I had been cheated and given a rate of around 1.1 to the pound, instead of 1.5.

Annoyed, I returned to the bank the next day and to my relief found it was a mistake and a new cashier had accidentally given me the Euro rate. One refund later and I was disappointed to discover Natwest's rate was merely 1.3 when I'd seen much higher elsewhere. The answer? Take recommendations, forsake your bank and go British. Good old M & S offered the best rate of 1.54! Certainly a new favourite for buying currency.

Wisdom imparted, I'm going to continue packing my life up and prepare for lone travel. I'll be absent for the next three weeks so if anyone reading is due to depart soon, enjoy.

The Elusive Etymology

As a teacher seeing sulky pouting students is part of the job but a sight much less common these days than you might expect as the sound of teeth sucking seems to have taken over. Not so long ago, I actually witnessed a student formulating what I've always called a “fletcher lip” and commented on it to a colleague who'd never heard of the expression, instead referring to it as “making a moue”.

I recall many a scene as a child where I was accused of “making a fletcher lip” and as a result, laughed at. As I've been on an exceedingly gluttonous Herefordshire trip with my family, I thought I'd ask them where the term came from. Old Dear had no idea but Big G was quick to explain its etymology lies in archery: apparently back in the day when strategically-placed archers were a primary form of defence, having the bow's anchor point placed near to the lips when ready to draw resulted in a similar lower lip pout-like expression.

Having just returned from my mini-break, I thought I'd put my mum's explanation to the test and did indeed discover that “fletching” are the stabilising fins or vanes of an arrow (each individual fin being a “fletch”) and that a “fletcher” is the craftsman who makes/attaches “fletching” for the arrows. While there's nothing explaining the exact etymology of the term or explicitly linking a “fletcher lip” to archery, there is obviously a semantic connection.

Both to “make a moue” and “fletcher” have origins in French with the first use of “moue” recorded from Middle French in 1850 and “fletcher” coming from the Old French “flèche”, meaning "arrow” and the Frankish “fliukka” from between the fourth and eighth centuries. As there seems to be little evidence of similar uses of the term on the Internet, I can only conclude “a fletcher lip” is an original Owenism and wonder what pet names other families have for the expression?