If it's Saturday it must be ...Middletown

Apologies are due for the last 3 weeks of no blog. I have been gallivanting - to Brighton, Crete, Brighton, Prague and back to Middletown and it's been great. The trip to Crete was a post-graduation treat for Daughter Number 3 and me, whilst Brian (resolutely untreatable) held the fort in Middletown. Of course he was ably assisted by Sir W and also by GF who kindly cooked a few meals and ironed a few shirts. The past weeks have developed into a very pleasant, mutually advantageous Menage a Trois although we are rarely "a trois" all together and there is definitely no irregular sexual activity (nor much of the regular kind, I think I heard Brian mutter from the bowels of a homeward-bound Korean Air 747). Crete was just what the doctor ordered - a picture-perfect, not too commercialised Shirley Valentine-esque fishing village, lots of lovely swimming opportunities, delicious food and drink, although at a slightly unpalatable price. The strength of the Euro has brought about something of a recession in Greek tourist trade and while the near empty bars and beaches were a delight to me and non-party animal Number 3, the locals were decidedly unimpressed. Our hotelier, the "charming" (according to some obviously out of date internet review) Manos, was a miserable so'n'so who insisted on holding on to our passports for the whole week without reasonable explanation, was most reluctant to hand over an extra pair of threadbare holey sheets and neglected to carry any of our bags up the twisting staircase to our apartment. We got our own back by spending our precious Euros elsewhere after finding not one but 2 springy dark hairs in my first morning's "Full Eenglish". A couple of lightly education excursions were undertaken, first to a former Leper colony (and after the mossies had finished with my feet and legs I began to fear apprehension as an escapee) and then to Knossos, of greater interest than it might otherwise have been to the new qualified teacher who has to deliver Greek Myths to her Year 5 class next term. On this tour we were accompanied by an impressively multi-lingual guide who divided her charges into 2 groups - The English Speakers and The Francophones (sic) - each of which she addressed separately, banishing the unwanted group to "have a photo opportunity". Each spiel for the benefit of the English Group began with, "Here on the island of Krit-i" (just in case anyone was suffering from a "senior moment") and ended with the phrase, "And thees I shall also be telling to ze French", giving the distinct impression that we had strayed into a re-run of 'Allo, 'Allo. Later, back at the apartments, Number 3 and I were enjoying a rather over enthusiastic re-enactment of the Knossos experience whilst simultaneously attempting to maintain our balance on one of Manos's airbeds when it suddenly struck me that we were not larking around in the privacy of our backyard pool in Houston but under the disapproving scrutiny of a trio of boys from Bolton, a couple from Croydon, our (un)genial host and his rather dishy bartender son. Later that night, when one too many gimlets caused me to momentarily lose the use of my legs en route our room, Manos, alerted by uninhibited laughter and the screeching of the sunbed which broke my fall, opened the little square window in his bathroom, peered out toothbrush in mouth then slammed it shut again without even the most cursory enquiry as to my state of health. Next time, and there could be one, we'll stay with the truly charming and solicitous Georgio next door.

Just 2 days after my return home, GF and I were off to Prague but not before my ever-alert maternal gaze had registered that Sir W was having trouble with his er willy or at least his waterworks which can be a very serious, even fatal, condition in male cats. So it was straight off to the vets for an examination which happily revealed that he had not yet reached the critical condition of "blocked tom" but a couple of injections were administered just in case. Early next morning GF and I set off for the airport leaving a non too thrilled Brian in charge of a very disconsolate moggie and a special litter tray kit which, allegedly, would enable him to capture a feline urine sample for analysis. (I was later to receive an email communication from Sir W reporting that Brian had been "very busy" in his (William's) litter tray which was not only disgraceful but totally unnecessary - was 4 toilets all to himself not good enough?). The flight to Prague was full but uneventful - thankfully no stag parties, just a lanky young Czech whose somewhat tenuous grasp of English caused him to miss the opportunity of swopping his cramped window seat for my (very slightly) more spacious aisle position. Most probably, GF and I decided, he was still overcome after having been awarded a First Class Honour's Degree in Communications from one of our newer universities. A thorough digestion by GF of the DK Guide to Prague meant that on arrival we were able to repulse the advancing hoards of unregulated taxi drivers and, armed with our 26 Kron (less than £1/$2) transfer tickets, hop on a number 100 bus to the tube station and several stops later alight at Namesty Republiki and then hoof it to our delightful hotel in the Old Jewish Quarter. I'm sure many of you (my 3 daughters included) will have beaten me to this most delightful, pedestrian-friendly, visually-stunning East European treasure so I won't go on. Suffice it to say that it was everything we anticipated and more. We walked our Birkenstocks off, GF took literally hundreds of stunning photos and we only succumbed to dumplings once. There were some intriguing degustatory experiences on offer. On our very first night we could have supped "Wet Pussy" cocktails on one side of the road and dined upon "roast piggish knee" on the other; as it was GF played safe with the goulash while I experimented, most enjoyably, with the "Prague Sparrow" - braised pork on a nest of pickled cabbage- to you and me - washed down with some very acceptable Moravian wine.

Back at home, our potentially Blocked Tom was now suffering from a very unsightly and obviously very uncomfortable Baboon's Bum following a violent and prolonged attack of the runs (can't spell diarrhoea). To Brian's credit he was, for once, more concerned about a loved one's suffering than the state of our rented carpets and had even been popping home from work every couple of hours to monitor developments. Two return trips to the vets later things are a little better and a sample(poop proving considerably less elusive than its liquid counterpart) has already been sent to the lab. - thank goodness for the pet insurance I was talked into last year when I was still feeling guilty about abandoning poor William for a life of sloth and indulgence in the bad ole US of A - ah, those were the days... However, as my Dear Husband (aka GF's Other Husband) would certainly concur, I'm not doing too badly and the very good news is that, finally, we have all 3 daughters in (or about to be in) gainful employment and in posts which they hopefully will find personally satisfying as well as the all important financially remunerative. Next week we are off to help Number 3 move into her very own (rented) flat in upmarket Kemptown, a move which, I feel, could mark a new and exciting chapter in the Merchant Family saga. Now if only Brian and I could find that dream house...

Little House on the Patio

I bought a house today! I rang Brian at lunchtime and said I was going to do it and he said, "Okay, whatever you think best." No, really. So I did and it is just perfect - not too big, not too small, great location and totally maintenance free as not only are the windows plastic the roof and walls are too. Of course it is for Sir William and although the official description was "small dog kennel" he has lost no time in colonising it. In fact, so enamoured is he of his new toy - much like a toddler with a Wendy House or tent that he was snoozing in there from 2 pm until 10.30 pm, the latter hours on Brian's watch while GF and I were out seeing "Sex and the City, the Movie" (Q. should Big have been forgiven? Discuss). Obviously Brian had forgotten the maxim that you never let a baby nap too long in the day in case they are up all night... And so it was that as Brian retired to bed in a sulk, GF and I had our re-run of "The Apprentice" ruined by William in Werecat mode, venting his spleen on the upholstery, examining the chimney as a possible escape route and, worst of all, pointing his rear end at the mirror on my Grandma's washstand and vibrating his tail in a very suspect manner. Talking of suspect, if ever a reality programme was rigged it is "The Apprentice". Who in their right mind would waste time on any of them - one tells lies and can't spell, another thinks the fact that he is "only 24" should be a passport to the top and another is attempting to break the glass ceiling with the sheer force and volume of her tongue. They are all foul-mouthed and certainly do not have "great fluency in English" as claimed in one CV. Post interview, they are all worried that they didn't "articulate" or "convey " themselves as well as they would have wished. Well here's another transport metaphor for you - "Gerr on yer bikes!!"

Oops La La

As you might anticipate from my earlier post, this week I have been assiduously following the semi-finals of Britain's Got Talent and Good Friend is a very willing convert. As well as alternately marvelling and cringing at the mind boggling variety of acts, another, unexpected reaction has enhanced our nightly viewing - we have both, despite his startlingly chemically enhanced teeth, fallen in love with the re-constructed Simon Cowell! No longer the unfeeling, robotic, high-waisted, life-sized Barbie consort, he has morphed into a charming, sexy (especially when collar and tie batten down the chest hair) sympathetic man who is kind to children and animals and, most importantly, respectful of Amanda Holden's right to an opinion. It now falls to Piers Morgan to fulfil the role of condescending ageist misogynist who can also add spectacularly ill-informed to his CV - Bleeding Heart, my a***.

And so to the finalists... GF and I liked Signature, the dancing Sikhs and also clever collie, Gin, plus the shy chorister Andrew Johnston but not kiddie ballroom duo, The Cheeky Monkeys (Simon's soft side was positively flaccid where they were concerned). We adore inspired dancer George Sampson (to the point of actually picking up the phone and voting for him) and who would not admire the poise and talent of 12 year old Faryll Smith? We do not rate string ensemble Escala, however, who may be brilliant and gorgeous but are not innovative and would not attract nearly so much admiration if their collective and amply displayed pins were not quite so lissom. Martial arts duo, Strike, are far from a knockout in our book and what happened to the fabulous Hoop La La? I'm quite sure Prince Charles would have enjoyed them. But who cares? Our boy has won - for his Mum - and there wasn't a dry eye in the living room, the newly returned Brian having, predictably, beat a retreat to an early bed.

Many congrats to Blackpool's Jodie Pregner, victor in the Battle of the Nancies. The Lord and his side-kick, Cameron McIntosh, made it quite clear they didn't want her with the ennobled gargoyle even stooping so low as to make a sizeist remark (hey, what about a remake of that other Victor Hugo Classic, The Hunchback of Notre Dame?). They didn't like being over-ruled by "the people", seemingly forgetting that it was the plebs who made them their multi-millions in the first place.