Nocturnal mewsings

I expect many of you have, like me, been following the latest "shock/horror" Archers' revelation to wit the engagement of C of E vicar, Alan Franks, to Asian lawyer, Usha Gupta. Naturally, this novel and highly unlikely coupling has split the good parishioners of Ambridge, culminating last week in a cat fight between Ms Gupta and Shula Archer, a welcome change in tempo from two of the most boring and sanctimonious characters in this "everyday story of country folk". I have pondered the issue and have come to the rather surprising (to me) conclusion that I am of the Susan Carter School of Thought. Let's forget religious tolerance and cultural symbiosis for a while. The position of a priest in any church is not just a job; it is a calling, a way of life and a very public act of faith and, as Susan so rightly asks, how can Alan continue to deliver Holy Communion and uphold Christianity as The Way to God when married to a Hindu? Sacrifices have to be made and even if Alan and Usha are "the only middle aged singles in the village" it is not right for them to be joined in holy matrimony. I am not big on the Church of England, or any church, nor do I have anything against Hinduism and if Usha were to take a fancy to lonely widower, Mike Tucker, that's quite OK with me but vicars should stand by their beliefs in all aspects of their lives, or leave the ministry, otherwise their position in the community they serve means nothing at all. Will the BBC allow the star-crossed lovers to make it to the altar of St Stephen's in August? I'm definitely interested to find out.

In yesterday's Sunday Times, India Knight took a stand by speaking of an underclass in Britain which she sees as responsible for many of society's current ills - excessive drinking, violent youth crime, lack of what we used to call "common decency". The concept of an underclass, while highly politically incorrect and therefore unaddressed, is not a new one. I remember my Dad, a man of impeccable working class origins, with 35 years experience in the Police Force and then Social Services, commenting, in shocked bewilderment, on its rise as long ago as the late 1960's. Who or what is responsible for its creation is more difficult to identify but certainly this bottom rung of society bears no relation to the traditional working classes who no longer exist but were once the moral backbone of Britain. I quite often pop into a very nice "one stop" shop which serves a large council estate bordering the newer, private properties on Gazeuponafactory. It is a good place to view the many facets of mankind. As I queue up with my wholewheat loaf and carton of skimmed milk, I am very aware that, despite a generous choice of foodstuffs on the surrounding shelves, the vast majority of my fellow customers are there for cut price booze and fags. The other day, I stood behind an undernourished, follicly challenged lady of a certain age who had a little boy in tow to whom she spoke quite tenderly. Her basket was empty except for a copy of The Sun. At the checkout she requested two 6 packs of lager and several packets of ciggies. "Do you think we need anything else, Nan?"piped up the little boy, perhaps hoping for sweets or just possibly a little disconcerted by the limited nature of her purchases. "No Darlin', Nan replied. "We have everything we need".

William's nighttime wanderings, although somewhat dampened by recent inclement weather conditions, continue to fray my nerves and he had driven me (metaphorically, even his many talents don't include mastery of a gear stick and his feet will never reach the pedals) to T K Maxx in search of retail recuperation to the tune of some beige Nicole Fahri linen pants, a large straw and even larger straw basket with which I intend to titillate the locals and shame Daughter Number 3 on our forthcoming trip to Crete. "Look what you made me do!" I moaned, thrusting a pair of newly Birkenstocked feet under The Bolter's nose. He was unmoved, as I hope Brian will be when he checks the bank balance online in Korea.

Only over here: A pair of Sikh Michael Jackson wannabes and a dancing sheep dog have just been voted through to the final of Britain's Got Talent. Don't you just love it?

Spud We Don't Like

Yesterday I waved off a reluctant Brian for a 2 week business trip to the Far East and welcomed a return visitor from the West (of Canada). She too has been waging war on the lbs so today she came with me to brave the Witches of Weightwatchers who were, of course, charm personified. Despite some misgivings, we each recorded a 1.5 lb loss (bringing my personal tally to 9) and skipped the pep talk for a celebratory coffee, and no cake, in more congenial surroundings. Later on, after an hour's perambulation around the sights of Gazeuponafactory Estate, we found a novel method of curbing our worked-up appetities by watching a recording of "My Half Ton Dad", a Channel 4 documentary about 40 year old,27 stone Kenneth Brumley from good ole Houston, Texas (apparently exisiting, not living, quite close to our erstwhile abode as it was members of the Klein Fire Department who arrived to wrest him from his broken bed and, via a demolished internal wall, convey him to the Renaissance Hospital downtown). The surgery he underwent before a gastric bypass could be performed was truly gruesome and Good Friend and I were so engrossed (and grossed out) that we forgot all about our healthy suppertime potatoes baking in the oven. By the time they were rescued and arranged on a plate together with fish and steamed veg they, in their wrinkled dark leathery skins resembled nothing so much as rounded portions of tissue carved from Kenneth's inner thighs - more tumour than tuber, to paint a not very pretty picture. So without any effort or feelings of deprivation, GF and I were able to save 3 precious points apiece which will be spent later tonight on large G's with slimline T and, I'm ashamed to report, if hysterical laughter can burn calories, they're in for a very big surprise at WW next week!

Since my recent post extolling his exemplary behaviour, Sir William hath been comporting himself in a mighty strange manner. For the last two evenings he has launched himself at the front door then charged out into the night, all of a doo-da, twitching from tip to tip (whiskers to tail). On Sunday night he was seen crossing the forbidden Gazeuponafactory Drive with scant regard for oncoming traffic (there was none) and marching purposefully to The Roundabout. Brian was all for calling the police but I bravely decreed that we must sit tight and await developments. An hour later, William of the Wild had returned and immediately reverted to being our dear little Willy Wonka, sleeping all night on Brian's side of the bed thus ensuring that he (Brian) would arise next morning with a strangely lop-sided gait - not the best condition in which to undertake a 13 hour flight. I blame the effect of the amazing full moon we have been enjoying lately which, I believe, is due to reach its zenith this very night. At the time of writing, William is lounging on warm tarmac in front of the garage doors, languidly casting the odd pitying glance at the poor canine saps forced to accompany their humans on the Twitcher's Turning leg of the passagiatta. But appearances can be deceptive (just ask the Yorkies) and in a couple of hours time the feline equivalent of Clark Kent will, before my horrified gaze, morph into William the Werecat. Just as long as he is home by 11.30 pm because that's when the Silver Shadow's Mummy is going to bed!

Tempuss Fugit

Friday already - where does the time go? As I sat nursing a cup of tea and a sugar hangover, William came flying in through the kitchen door pursued by a flurry of raindrops and an extra fat magpie - nasty things. For several weeks running now I have been dogged (hardly le mot juste, I know) by single magpies, dive-bombing my car windscreen or landing on the front lawn just as I look out of the window. I was already feeling a bit spooked when, in town the other evening, a pigeon landed right in front of my car. Fortunately I was looking for a parking place so moving very slow;y. I waited 20 seconds or so for it to waddle on and was just about to set off again when I realised I hadn't seen it arrive on the opposite pavement so pulled back a few feet and there it still was, staring up at me. Is somebody trying to tell me something?

I had a sugar hangover because last night, even after enjoying a very substantial risotto verde and side salad in the company of a friend, I was still hungry and very tired and it had to be sugar so I broke into Brian's cake store and pinched half a square of millionaire's shortbread although it was from Aldi so not the most appropriate epithet. It certainly hit the spot that WW's cereal bars don't reach. I blame too much swimming. I got quite carried away on Wednesday and have felt the effects ever since. I am not going today because I have hair and eyebrow appointments followed by Sainsbury's - quite enough penance for one day.

As it is raining (which he can detect without getting out of bed in the morning) William will be quite happy to stay in while I am out, not that this is usually a problem. I have noticed just recently that his vocabulary has increased tremendously. Not only does he understand, "I am going out now (so you had better come in)" but also "bedtime", " alright, just five minutes more then", "no road, no dogs" (although we have has another slight altercation with the Yorkies) and, of course, "I have booked William into the Cattery" now expressed, with some difficulty on Brian's part as "J'ai fait une reservation pour Guillaume chez l'hotel des chats. Of course, it will only be a matter of time before Mon Petit Choux, cat of superior intelligence, works that one out and we will have to move on to "Wilhelm muss ins Katzen Hotel!". On second thoughts, that's much too obvious. Anyone know the Japanese for cattery?

I have had a comment on my blog! However, it was only from martinet Daughter Number 2, pointing out that there has been a number of spelling mistakes/typos (naturally the latter) in my posts to date - now rectified and Brian has introduced me to the blog spell checker so hopefully there will be no need for the red pen in future. I dare say she was not the only one to spot the unintentional mistakes, so apologies all round.

Oh uh. "Daddy's home" has just reverberated down the hall, William has dived for the nearest exit and I've forgotten to put the oven on. Stercus Accidit - that's Latin for an unfortunate occurrence.

The Pound Police

There was nearly blood on the carpet at WeightWatchers yesterday. Before you can gain access to the inner sanctum (weighing, pep talk and the opportunity to purchaser ersatz 1.5 point Bounty bars) you have to get past two ladies of a certain age who are in very self-important charge of registration and payment. I duly approached Lady Number 1 and presented my weight card from which she, gimlet- eyed, immediately deduced that I had missed last week's session. "Yes, I know, I said sweetly. "I was in hospital". Eventually my record was found in the miscreants' pile and I passed on to Lady Number 2 who had, I was pretty sure, been listening to my exchange with Number 1. Number Two looked at my card and, more Lewis than Morse, immediately charged me with having missed last week's meeting. "I know, I replied evenly. "I was in hospital". I then received a lecture to the effect that any missed meeting must be paid for. "I know, I retorted briskly. "But I was in hospital". I was then informed that any elected absence must be pre-notified to the Course Leader so that "she can mark your card" to which I hissed from between clenched teeth, "I told the lady who was in your seat 2 weeks ago and she said it was OK if you were IN HOSPITAL." Sharp intake of breath from behind the tables. I was sorely tempted (but held myself in check as I need to continue this trial of patience for another 20lbs or so) to add that I might be a considerable number of years their junior but I won't be spoken to like a naughty schoolgirl or a felon bent on defrauding WeightWatchers of £5.50 ($11) and, if they persist in adopting this line of enquiry, then next week there could be a hospital visit of a very different complexion. Then I processed into the weighing room to receive the glad tidings that I had lost another 3lbs, bringing my total loss to date to 8 lbs over 4 weeks - neatly averaging out at the 2lbs per week prescribed by Brian.

I have just got round to reading the rest of the Sunday Times and note that Rachel Johnson herself was not very happy with her showing on last week's Question Time although she did try to push some of the blame on to Piers Morgan - and why not? Well, good, that makes two of us and perhaps now she will be content to confine herself to her column - and its obviously air-brushed photo.

Jaw Jaw

Driving again today for the first time since the little op. Recent very warm weather means that Middletown is looking its very best; we are lucky to have so many lovely tree-lined streets, especially in the oldest parts. Why must Brian be so uncompromising about on-site parking although I guess I'd be cursing if I couldn't park within a few yards of my door late on some dark and dreadful night.

I've just treated myself to a recording of Saturday's "Britain's Got Talent". I love talent shows and have proved rather adept at picking winners, especially on American Idol. Barring his misguided backing of Gareth Gates instead of Will Young on the very first Pop Idol, I am nearly aways in step with Simon Cowell who talks a lot of sense (although I did think the musical saw was a tour de force) and in a less abrasive fashion than formerly. Brian, naturally, abhors all this "waste of productive time"(hence the furtive recorded viewing) while William is more forbearing but does not care for the violent and prolonged paroxysms of laughter provoked by so many of the contestants. As I keep reminding Brian, "all of human life is there" and also, sadly, some with doubtful claim to the human part. His particular bete noire is "I'd Do Anything" or, in reference to 75% of the judging panel, "You could all be Nancies". I am no advocate of cosmetic surgery but if you had even some of the Lord's (A Lloyd-Webber) money, wouldn't you? His facial expressions are simply excruciating but it was his integrity which came under the Merchant scrutiny last Saturday when, as expected, he took his chance to get rid of ginger Ashley in the sing-off even though her rendition of his very own "Don't Cry for me Argentina" was streets ahead of Neve, the dark, very young and very, very un-nancyish Irish beauty. Even Brian, who had made a premature re-entry to the lounge, was crying "shame!".

Until last week, I had no idea that Rachel Johnson, Sunday Times columnist, was the sister of Boris. Now there can be no-one in the land, let alone London, who is unaware of their relationship because she is everywhere (Woman's Hour, Question Time). I hope this is not an indication of how Boris intends to conduct his mayoral term ie too many Johnsons in the spotlight but then I wouldn't be the first to suggest that he is a bit of a d***. And is it just me, or is there something of the trans-sexual about the sister? That jawline, for instance......

Views from the Property Ladder

Weekends are for house-hunting! Brian and I have been amusing ourselves in this fashion for the past 4 months, livening up what might otherwise have been some lack lustre leisure time. We are not idle nosy parkers because we do need to find a new permanent abode for ourselves and Sir William but in the present economic climate are in no great hurry. Estate agents, however, are falling over themselves to get us inside some of the myriad properties on their books. As unencumbered buyers with cash (a position for which I, with Brian's agreement, take full credit having exercised some hitherto uncharacteristic financial foresight) we are something of a hot property ourselves and rather enjoying our VIP status. Since the advent of Rightmove, Prime Location and house price websites, estate agents are largely redundant - they just haven't caught on yet. While I am happy to be kept informed of property so new to the market it hasn't yet made an appearance on the Web, I don't take quite so kindly to being rung up at 8.30 am with "news" of a house which has been languishing in the property media for weeks, if not months. Nor to we need to be accompanied round a property by an agent eager to point out "fantastic features", ie. a perfectly average staircase with a bend in it or "double" bedrooms which might just accommodate a 4'6" bed if you don't mind clambering over it to open a window and never close the door. And, despite the insistence of one particular gelled and spotty youth, a grotty shower cubicle in a cupboard is NOT an ensuite bathroom! In turn, I rather enjoy giving my art history lecture on the differences between Victorian and Edwardian architecture - always a tricky one for the "property professionals" and pointing out that a reproduction Victorian fireplace in a 1950's house is not actually a "lovely period feature". Sadly, some would-be sellers (embarrassingly, for all concerned, sometimes ancient work colleagues or the father of one of Daughter No 1's less delightful boyfriends) have not cottoned on to the change in the market either and are still expecting exorbitant prices for very average or frankly unattractive property (which, we are assured, some buyers, with presumably more imagination and less sense "will be able to see beyond"). Unbelievably, some homeowners have apparently still not seen any of the ubiquitous house make-over programmes and think it is fine for prospective buyers to be greeted by racks of smelly trainers, stained carpets and dirty bathrooms. None of our previous 4 properties were on the market for more than 2 weeks before a sale was agreed and between 1976 and 2002 all our sales and purchases were conducted by very satisfactory private agreement. Estate agency is not, in my book, a "profession"; it is a parasitic, opportunistic and unnecessary business and I for one will not shed any tears over what looks like inevitable redundancies in that over-populated sector.

Having said that, I dare say we will be making someone's day sometime in the not too distant future although perhaps not as soon as we initially anticipated. Extensive investigation reveals that modern house design is not an art that has been mastered by all developers. We have seen huge kitchens which are in effect corridors with a cooker (I beg your pardon, range, top of) on one side and sink some 12 feet away on the other making domestic life not only difficult for the cook but dangerous for passing family members. Under worktop fridges and freezers may look neat but are a pain to use and never big enough; shiny floor tiles are also not the safest floor covering and almost impossible to keep smear-free. Palatial kitchens are, strangely, usually complemented by disappointingly under-sized "public" rooms , often accessed via grandiose double doors which means there is no suitable wall against which to position a 3 seater sofa, especially if you hope to watch TV whilst lounging thereon. The most attractive and practical designs tend, surprisingly, to be on the Gazeuponafactory -style gargantuan developments which is not where we want to live long-term. And, naturally, the houses in the, admittedly few, areas where we might like to live have high maintenance original wooden windows and no on-site parking, defects which instantly render Brian blind to their many other charms. Hey ho - we are not in a bad position, after all, and the longer we remain renters, the weaker the home-owning imperative seems to get. We both, nay all, because I can also include Sir William despite another run-in, or off, with the pesky Yorkies, very much enjoy the convenience of our present style of living, all the more so, I suspect, because we are free to make the change whenever the time is right - or the market rises.

Fickle Monitoring

I feel I must begin with an apology for the sudden hiatus (albeit enforced) in my embryonic blog. I was just getting ready to post on May 3rd when Brian rang from work (! so busy on company business that he can't make it home before 7 pm) to inform me that I had been temporarily closed down by Blogspot while they checked out me out for "spam" and other undesirable activity. It was obviously the week for it because while "off air" I popped into hospital to have a long standing but non-lifethreatening heart condition sorted out. The condition is called periodic SVT (paroxysmal Super Ventricular Tachycardia) or palpitations to you and me and I can tell you exactly how long I've had it - 23 years - as it started about 6 months into the pregnancy with Daughter Number 3. As she was a big girl (9lbs 2 oz at term) carried high, she was determined to be the cause of the problem which should have disappeared post-partum or such was the wisdom of my then GP and midwife - it also gave them the perfect excuse to refuse me a home birth but that's another story.

Well, it didn't go away and over the years the episodes of double speed but fortunately regular heart rate had become more prolonged (23 hours at worst) and debilitating to the point where even the day after an "attack" I was unable to climb the stairs without collapsing breathless and light-headed on the landing, to William's alarm and Brian's scorn. I could have signed up for this procedure (Percutaneous Translum Ablation of access pathway/modification of AV node ie. "zapping" of the additional troublesome electrical circuit in the heart) but was put off by Brian who, around that time, underwent an almost certainly unnecessary angiogram, a not dissimilar procedure involving a catheter introduced into the heart via the femoral artery. When I went to collect him, I vividly recollect that he could barely walk to the car, let alone hop into the passenger seat on account of the tourniquet-type bandage on the wound in his groin, nor was I thrilled to hear him boast of having been able to watch the progress of said catheter into his Old Ticker on a conveniently placed monitor. An experience I could definitely do without but times and needs change and after assurances that I could elect to be totally oblivious throughout and suffer no after affects such as arterial weakness, I finally capitulated and so far (early days, I know) am very glad I did. I am also very grateful that, thanks to Brian's employers, I was able to go into hospital as a private patient and enjoy all the attendant benefits - own room, TV, phone, palatable food and, hopefully, a better standard of cleanliness but, best of all, I was not obliged to use a bedpan on a mixed ward with only an ill-fitting curtain to preserve my dignity and (Gordon please note, if there is any room left on your "To Do" list) I don't think anyone else should have to either.

It must be the menopause

Swimming day, last one of three this week. I only lost half a pound at WeightWatchers on Tuesday and was very cross. Apparently I am exercising too much and not eating enough. Well, duh, isn't that what you're supposed to do? No! According to the violently hennaed harridan presiding over the weighing apparatus, I should be "eating" my exercise points which, by my calculation on the WW cardboard slide rule (one of the perks of my £5.50 session fee) come to 2.5 which equates to 40 minutes moderate to hard swimming for someone of my sex, age and weight. Let me see: that would be one bowl of porridge or one and two thirds WW cereal bars or five medium apples OR 1 large glass of vino - and that would be known in trans-Atlantic parlance as a "no brainer".

I have acquired another cast off mobile phone from Daughter Number 3. Brian is, of course, very happy to support any example of re-cycling but I am only allowed to receive calls and text which I have easily mastered, much to his chagrin. Number 3 and I are now both on Orange and I am her "magic number" so she can ring me as often as she likes at no cost, except to my maternal reserves. Another bonus of this new arrangement is "Orange Wednesday" ie 2 cinema tickets for the price of one, a deal of which, again, Brian is happy to partake so I dragged him along this week to see "Forgetting Sarah Marshall". I am not a huge fan of the Judd Apatow school of comedy (40 Year Old Virgin, Knocked up) which, school boy smutty humour apart, I find morally ambiguous and therefore unsatisfying but I guess that's just modern life. Anyway, the reason I was so keen to go had absolutely nothing at all to do with morals cos I simply wanted to drink in Russell Brand on whom I have developed an unseemly, not to say unlikely, crush. This admiration is of a purely aesthetic nature; we are not eye to eye (or any other body parts) on his sexual proclivities but I find his slightly louche, 16th Century Elizabethan appearance, cavalier deportment and disarmingly sweet smile totally mesmeric and, to my even greater surprise, love to hear him talk and, on this occasion, sing. Comparisons with the official star of the movie, Jason Segel, a disconcertingly young Piers Morgan lookalike, (facially, I can't comment on the body and certainly not the bit of it that got far too much exposure for my liking) were all in Russell's favour, even if the screen play did require him to go through some very dubious motions with a giant chess piece. Next week we'll be seeing "What Happens in Vegas" featuring my other secret swoon, Ashton Kutcher, for whom, ever since That Seventies Show I have harboured strong maternal feelings with a twist - much like Demi Moore, I suppose. Did I mention, that apart from their obvious physical attributes, both my boys are also self-deprecatingly clever and funny, that universal female aphrodisiac which, on a good night, can turn even Ian Hislop into an object of (fleeting) desire. I only hope an increasingly creased-looking Cameron Diaz can arouse the same level of enthusiasm in Brian.

Introducing Angela

Hello, Angela Merchant speaking/writing/blogging. I'm not sure what the etiquette is in terms of address when starting a "public" blog. My story started some 32 years ago when two teenage sweethearts from the Northeast got married and moved to a small market town in middle England where the male of the species had secured a graduate training post with a large electrical engineering company. We only saw it as a staging post, a couple of years at most and then we'd be off to pastures newer and greener, preferably within striking distance of the sea. 27 years, 4 houses, 3 children, several cats and the same job later we were still land-locked but the big prize was about to be delivered - a 3 year professional secondment to Houston, Texas. This is where the story came to print in the form of emails sent to friends and family back home which, on our reluctant return to Blighty in 2007, transposed into a monthly bulletin. Anyone wishing to catch up on "back numbers" can do so at http://www.themerchantstale.com/. For those of you beginning here, Angela is a 50 something wife and mother, sadly no longer a daughter, never a sister, married to Brian; together they have 3 beautiful, wonderful, sometimes infuriating, stubbornly single daughters and share their living space with Sir William, Angela's superlative-defying grey tabby cat. Once again electively unemployed, Angela shares the highs and lows of middle-aged, middle of the road living in Middletown, UK.

So.... local council and London mayoral election day. Brian and I have voting cards for our new address but not sure if we'll use them. Probably we will, as children of the fifties we expect to do our duty. Selfishly, with no children still at school and even though it looks as if all escape routes from Middletown are now blocked, I can't get too worked up about local affairs. However, I can take the opportunity to register my disgust at the parlous state of the country under Man of Straw, G. Brown Esq. Daughter No.2 rings up in tears - she has no voting card and can't find out where to go to help choose a new - or old- London Mayor. I tell her not to worry her pretty little head as she has already this day had a run-in with her local council over the non-payment of housing benefit (applied for in March) has yet another job interview at the seemingly closed shop which is the country's greatest Arts museum followed by a first date with an occasional jive dance partner, a 32 year old Kiwi who goes under the sobriquet of Bugsy Malone. Quite enough excitement for one day. Just out of interest, I enquire, who would you be voting for? Oh, probably the Green er person.....or Ken. Not that Big Girl's Blouse Boris, that's for sure. So much for capturing the young educated female vote then.

Why is it you can check your chin one day, with search light and magnifying mirror, and there is not even the suspicion of a whisker and then the very next time you come to apply the polyfiller you have sprouted at least 2 spiky white bristles worthy of the Wicked Witch in any Grimm fairytale?