Inclusion

"Oh good grief!"  My friend looked up from her phone.  "That was a text from Auntie Doreen.  I've got to get something for my cousin's rabbit." 

{Q: What do you get a rabbit for Christmas?  A: New batteries.}  Only it wasn't that sort of rabbit, which made things a bit more difficult.

"What on earth can I get?" my friend went on, as she continued wrapping gifts for her dog.  "Rabbits don't play with toys, or anything like that.  What sort of person buys a Christmas present for a rabbit?"  I knew the answer to this one.  One of my daughter's friends is mad on rabbits; if anyone could help us, she could.  I picked up my own phone, then realized that half past ten on Christmas Eve night probably wouldn't be the best time to call.

Not everyone is a last-minute person like me.  Oh, those people crowding the supermarkets at a minute past midnight on Christmas Eve morning probably think they are but, believe me, they are mere amateurs.  True last-minute, homework-on-the-bus types like me want to do our Christmas shopping after work on Christmas Eve, when we really can't put it off any longer.  Except, by then, the shops were either closed or had nothing left.  Whatever happened to the comradely atmosphere of a few years ago, when I could shop at 6pm with glazed-eyed men and carefree schoolchildren?  At least the Mayans gave me a bit of an excuse this year.  {Darling, I wanted to spend my last hours on earth in the warm with you, not with irritable strangers on the cold streets of Hull.} 

I suppose, that with all these pets to buy for now, people are just having to become more organized.  Especially the retailers.  You can now get cards for almost every imaginable species and combination of recipients, even in Yorkshire.  I found a very attractive card addressed to, "My daughter and her girlfriend" - nothing wrong with that, except it was better than any I could find for my daughter and her boyfriend.  Actually, I could probably have found a nicer card to "My daughter and her cat".  Or just, "To the cat".  I settled for one that said, "To both of you".  But I wonder now, how many rabbits received the same card?

Channelling Adam

 I may have the body of a mature woman but, from time to time (quite frequently, unfortunately) I find myself with the mind of an immature teenage boy.   Let's call him Adam - absolutely no resemblance to any actual Adam that I know.  His sense of humour is what you would expect, but it keeps me sane.

Mornings are not my favourite time of day, particularly when I have to get up at 6.30 am to get ready for the day job.  So in order to break myself in gently, I listen to Radio 4.  It gets me used to the idea that people will be talking to me fairly soon, and I'm going to have to concentrate.  Trouble is, I'm not really concentrating yet, so only random words and phrases make it through to my brain.  The other morning, I was just getting into the shower when I suddenly registered that the presenter was saying, "....so they're going to set up the Office for Unconventional Gas".  Who "they" are I have no idea but, if you have to work in an office, that one's got to be more interesting than most!  That's when Adam kicked in, and I started wondering, what counts as an unconventional gas?  My first thought was helium, but apparently there's quite a lot of that about, so at least the O UG staff (even the acronym's funny!) won't be speaking in squeaky voices.  There is also far too much methane about to be unconventional, for which I'm sure they will be very thankful.  However, I believe you can get heavy (or do I mean dense?) gasses, that would lurk around their ankles in a thick white cloud.  And I've driven through fog sometimes that doesn't start until about five feet off the ground, but fog is a vapour - does that count as a gas?  I surely hope so, because they could have some of that round their shoulders, then they wouldn't be able to see where they were going.  Or what their colleagues were doing.  Unless they kept bending down.

Just when I was starting to think about test tubes full of different coloured gasses, the radio presenter began to talk about fracking.  Now, I've more or less got my inner Adam under control with that word, so I was listening to this bit as a responsible grown-up with a concern for the environment.  What I didn't realise though, was that fracking isn't just a verb; it can be a singular noun.  Yep, that's right.  You can have one frack, and the earth moves in Birmingham (allegedly).  Adam was back with a vengeance, and I couldn't clean my teeth for giggling.

Heredity

I'm starting to realize that I have quite a lot in common with my father.  We both hate flying.  We're both terrible at writing letters.  And, according to my daughter, we both have weird-looking feet.  {I dispute this.  My feet are gorgeous; it says so in my shoes.}

Now, I've discovered another trait we share; we're both technologically challenged. For over a year I've been trying to persuade him to use Skype.  Now, at last, he has it installed and was ready to give it a go.  As arranged, he phoned first, so I could talk him through it.

Dad: Right, I've got it on, and I've got you as a contact.  What do I do now?

Me: You're not showing up as online.  Is your internet on?

Dad: Oh, right, I've got to have them both on?  Hang on, I'll go and do it.  Talk to Jan! (He hands phone to his wife.)

Jan: He's just gone to switch the internet on - the computer's in the other room.

(Pause, while I can hear him pottering about at the other end.)

Me: Right, I can see he's online now, I'll call him.

Jan: What does he have to do?

Me: He'll see a button come up on his screen to accept the call, he just has to click it.

(I hear this information being relayed.  Then I see a black screen, with me in the corner.)

Jan: We can see you!

Me: Well I can't see him!  Can he hear me?  Through the computer I mean, not over the phone.

Jan: I'll ask him...

This goes on for some time.  Eventually I can see him, but apparently the signal isn't good enough for sound and pictures together.  We wave at each other, and give up.

I suppose I shouldn't criticize.  It's taken me over two weeks to work out how to insert a picture in the middle of this post rather than at the beginning (which is the default thingy).  I have no idea how to wrap text round it and, although I manged to re-size it, I have no idea how to get it any clearer.... Oooh, yes I have!  It's clickable!  I amazed myself by designing my avatar (on previous post) but I can't insert a proper link to the site I got it from.  I put their address over there on the right of this page - you'll just have to copy and paste, I'm afraid.  I hope they aren't offended; I did my best!

Out, damn splot!

I'm sure you'll be delighted to know that I've just washed my hands.  It wasn't easy, despite having a half-full pump dispenser of beautifully scented liquid soap in my bathroom.  It looks so elegant, standing there on a white china tray, but will it give me any soap?  No it damn well won't!   I've tried pumping it at a variety of different speeds.  I've tried unscrewing the top and washing out the tube.  I've tried diluting the soap liquid (which is very thick and gel-like).  Not a splot.  Eventually I just unscrewed the top again and poured some out.  As I replaced the dispenser on the tray, I swear it gave a self-satisfied, ladylike little snort to its twin, the handcream bottle.  I didn't give her the satisfaction of even trying to extract some handcream on this occasion, as I know very well that she's just as reluctant to part with her contents.

Why do manufacturers put toiletries in bottles that you can't get them out of?  Do they really think that we'll just throw away half-full bottles and buy more of the stuff?  I refuse to be beaten by a bit of plastic, but I'm reluctant to take the breadknife to it just yet, as I did with my moisturiser bottle a little while ago.  When I'd finally sawn the bottle in half, there was enough moisturiser in the bottom for another two weeks!  Unfortunately, the way I was screwing up my face with the effort of the sawing process has just given me more wrinkles, so it probably wasn't worth doing.

Words of Wisdom

“The true end of literature is to enable the reader better to enjoy life, or better to endure it”.  So said Samuel Johnson; not to be confused with Samuel Whiskers, who said “Anna Maria, make me a roly-poly pudding”.  An equally laudable statement and probably, let's face it, one with more popular appeal.

Since it’s likely that more people enjoy puddings than enjoy reading, why be a writer?  Why not become a pudding chef?  In my case (as my friends and family are well aware) because the results of my cooking would be, like Anna Maria’s pudding string, “very indigestible”.  And I hate doing it.  On the other hand, I love writing.  And life is too short not to do what you love.