The hills are alive with the sound of wotnot

It's nice to get out and about, especially since the weather has finally taken a turn for the better and the sky has given up on trying to completely dominate the land by water.

In Sussex, we have England's newest National Park, the Sussex Downs.* Rolling hills of chalk, dropping off (quite literally in the case of Birling Gap) to the sea, but stretching for miles inland. Topped with scrubland and grazing fields, it's a nice place to get away from it all.

Well, it would be, if 'all' hadn't had the same idea and begun tromping and driving round the countryside in inappropriate clothing.

On the rare moments, however, when the sounds of traffic and/or screaming kids that would rather be watching TV are mercifully absent, it's a gloriously peaceful place to be. Close your eyes, and just listen. That's the wind in the grass, maybe an early cricket or grasshopper, the occasional sheep, and possibly one of the most defining sounds of the English open countryside, the song of the skylark.

A couple of weeks ago, we were driving to Seaford to take Roxy for a long walk along their promenade. For a change, I decided to take a route through the Beachy Head area of the South Downs National Park. The weather was warm, and I had the windows wound down a little, and I was thrilled to hear the skylarks singing away. Julie couldn't hear them, though.

Yes, she went there. Then claimed the cows were singing too, even though there weren't any nearby. I suggested their tune would be 'Udder the boardwalk'.

The conversation went absolutely nowhere after that.

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* Why on earth are these hills called 'downs'? As far as most people are concerned, they should be 'ups'. I'm sure there is a logical, etymological reason.

Born old birdie

This is a young seagull. It has this dappled colouring until it gets older - it's a defensive camouflage thing. Living in Eastbourne, we see a lot of these. And hear them. Ye gods, the keening of a young gull as it tries to blag food from a parent seriously gets on your ti... er, nerves.

The thing about knowledge, if I may digress slightly, is that until you learn or are told of a nugget of information, it will completely elude you. Furthermore, if you are not interested in certain things, then there is a strong chance that facts pertaining to those things will remain forever beyond your ken.

Julie, until I entered her life, didn't have much interest in natural wildlife. Now, she is just as keen as I am in seeing plenty of it both in the flesh and on TV. However, in the early days of our relationship, Julie was unaware (ie didn't care one way or another) that the speckled birds and the white ones were in fact of the same species. They were both bloody nuisances, that's all that mattered.

When we were out for a walk along the seafront one day, I pointed out one bird very similar to the one pictured above, and commented that it was merely a young seagull. Julie interpreted 'young' as 'baby'.

I'll take your word for that, love.

Well, rheally!

This, my friends, is a rhea. A flightless bird, very similar in looks to the more well-known ostrich and emu. And with a likewise similar taste for anything it can get its beak on.

Julie and myself encountered some just before New Year as we were walking around Birmingham Nature Centre. Strangely delicate, they were charming and almost calming to watch. The rest of the centre is well worth visiting too, and it comes as something of a surprise, considering it isn't all that large, and is pretty much slap-bang in the middle of a large city.

Of course, there are plenty of things for children to get involved with, including an opportunity to have a silly photo; pretending to be an animal by poking their head through a hole, the child's head then takes the place of the animal painted on the front of the display. Since we're both kids at heart, I offered Julie the chance of having a little fun by being silly. She did, and didn't even wait for the camera to take that chance...

In the end, Julie did get the photograph. Of her face. As a rhea.

Sort of... We might be kids, but we're big kids...

A very feathery fish

On one of our many forays into the eateries of town, me and Julie popped into Roots.

The food and drink is good and there is a fair choice, too. Not only that, but there are things that you won't often find in your average cafe, such as quails' eggs. The thing is, if you don't have more than a basic knowledge of flora and fauna, then even the word 'quail' will mean nothing more than a sensation of fear or trepidation. Julie is one such person. However, I will say right now that my wife is not unintelligent - far from it. A lack of knowledge is nothing to do with your mental processing power.

That said, Julie does ask some interesting questions...

I know quail eggs are small (and very delicious!), but they're not that small.!

Here's a quail.

Hotel Humdinger

It's my mother's birthday in a few days' time, and I was looking around for a little something to buy her as a bit of fun. Since she has a sizeable garden and an interest in wildlife - especially birds - we like to visit garden centres for this kind of thing. The fact that me and Julie like browsing them ourselves is beside the point of course (coughs uncomfortably). Another reason is that I'm always on the lookout for a relatively cheap squirrel-proof bird feeder, as Mum is forever despairing of their habit of destroying or even stealing the feeders (see HERE).

Once in the wildlife section of the nursery, though, I tend to be distracted by all the feeders and wotnots. I'm of the opinion that creating somewhere to live for some of the overlooked creatures is hugely important. Bees are on the decline globally, and humans are destroying habitats daily, whether directly by building or farming on it, or indirectly, by taking the resources or vital parts of the ecological chain.

One of the main problems in urban situations is that most people don't realise how much their manicured gardens or slabbed-over patios create a desert of living spaces for the animals we are displacing. The daft thing is, many of these bugs and other creatures are beneficial and/or harmless to humans. Craneflies (daddy longlegs) look creepy with their spindly legs and bodies, but they are vegetarian and won't harm you. Hoverflies look a little like wasps, but they are important pollinators, almost as important as bees (plus, they don't sting!).

There are some amazing ideas that various people and companies have come up with to help these garden helpers; if you google 'insect hotel' in image search, then you'll see what I mean. In the meantime, at this garden centre recently, I saw this one made by Neudorff.

It's a wonderful thing, providing refuge for various beneficial bugs. I would like one for our garden and I wouldn't mind betting my mother would, too. At a distance from the house though, and Julie was even less keen on the idea...

Gah.

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On a related note, it's that time of year when people like to have bonfires. However, nice as they are to watch, they are deathtraps for wildlife. If they see a pile of wood with lots of gaps, they are going to crawl in and make a nest. Please read this letter from the British Hedgehog Preservation Society and remember that other animals will use bonfires in the same way.

See here for a larger view http://preview.tinyurl.com/hogletter

Well, what a duck-up.

I don't know how widespread this is, but in Britain, we have a growing number of buffet-style restaurants - usually for varying degrees of tasty Chinese/pan-Asian food. There is one near to where my mother lives which is pretty good. A little further away though, is one one that I have already mentioned in this blog.

As I am sure I have mentioned before, Julie didn't have quite as much of a cosmopolitan upbringing, especially when it comes to food. As a result, I have introduced her to various Chinese and even Indian dishes. This is all well and good, but if you don't know about some dishes, false assumptions can be made...

Ooops.

Washed up & wrangling

We're back folks! Thanks for being patient while our technical difficulties were being sorted out.

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It has been a fairly pleasant summer this year and this means that everyone and his dog - usually literally - has decided at one point or another to hit the coast for a few days. Nevertheless, Julie and myself have had the inclination to have a wander along the promenade and enjoy the sights - ie, people watching.

That said, since the weather has been kind this year, we have had the chance to enjoy some lovely plants and flowers along the pathways. In particular, Eastbourne is famed for its 'carpet gardens' (so called, because the precise layout of the plants and flowers are reminiscent of the geometrically-patterned rugs of Persian fame).

However, for the purposes of this Gem, we are more concerned with the border & rockery plants. Lots of exotic-looking blooms, scrubby, tenacious plants - and various species of shrubbery.*

In places, these shrubs can be fairly dense, which is perfect for the flocks of smaller birds. They  get somewhere to roost and hide from the aggressive gulls - and it usually means they can dash out, grab a morsel to eat and dash back in again.

Unfortunately, space is something of a premium, so there tends to be a large amount of bickering coming from the shrubbery.*

Interesting - those shrubs must be more spacious than I first thought...

*NI!

Dr. Do-Bugger-All

As you may have gathered over the last few hundred posts, both Julie and myself enjoy the company of animals. We've visited any number of zoological parks and sat and watched wildlife in woodlands and the like. Mostly though, we will make a fuss of almost any four-legged mammalian creature that passes. Julie specialises in cats, while I prefer the company of dogs - and we both like hedgehogs.

However, not all animals are responsive.

Obviously, you need to approach any unfamiliar animal with caution and allow them time to get used to you. Julie, however, seems to find that many of the animals we tend to meet will ignore her for some reason or another. I'm sure it's just coincidence or a case of being a little too eager, but Julie has another explanation.

Oh, BALLS.

These balls, specifically.

Tits and balls, oh my!
They're blue tits, but that doesn't help much, does it?
At least they aren't great tits...

In my mum's garden, there are plenty of places for the local birdlife to get their fill - as long as the bloody pigeons and squirrels don't hog it all/crap all over it. But one of the best things we've found are the seed-packed spheres of suet - more commonly known as fat balls.

Yeah. You can see where we're going with this, can't you...

Obviously, it's going to take a total innocent not to make any kind of mental connection with, and let's not beat around the bush here, testicles. Bollocks, gonads, love spuds, the two veg to the penis's meat. Whatever you want to call the male reproductive organs, if you name a product of ANY kind 'fat balls', all kinds of people are going to be sniggering. To be perfectly honest, the manufacturers don't help either...

Ok, settle down at the back there...

As it happens, I recently had a request for me to buy some fat balls for the feeders in my mum's garden. In fact, the poorly-worded  text message I received from my sister ran, "Oh btw, Mum needs fat balls."
My reply? "No comment."

Today, as chance would have it, me and Julie were in a garden centre (cooing over the pets and discovering they even had a couple of hedgehogs!*), so we took the opportunity to buy some spherical bird treats.
After looking at all the pets, gifts and gardening gear, we left with nothing else but avian snacks. I admit to feeling a little sulky that we couldn't afford a 'hog (£150 - before care etc). Julie tried to put a positive spin on things though.

Honestly, I'm not sure one was worse than the other...

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* A little note on purchasing hedgehogs. Only buy/keep African pigmy hedgehogs, as all the other breeds are not suitable for keeping as pets.

Rodents with ratchets

The red squirrel is a lovely looking animal. Pity it's been pretty much comprehensively ousted by the grey squirrel. They're a voracious and clever beastie.

Unfortunately, my mother is more interested in attracting birds to her garden than squirrels. Over the years, both my parents spent a lot of time and money trying to get bird feeders to be squirrel proof.

Seriously. I mean, they have looked out the window a few times and seen a squirrel literally dragging an entire feeder across the lawn. That's when they can't break into them in situ, of course. There have been plastic domes over the feeders, thick wire cages - even grease on the poles supporting the feeders. Nothing has proved to be too much of an obstacle for the furry buggers.

One of the most recent - and effective - ploys has been a plastic tube with metal fixings that are really resistant to rodent teeth.

As you can see, it's a solid piece of kit. There is another fixing on the opposite side, and they're secured by a heavy-duty screw that is housed within the feeder itself. You can just see the Phillips head in the picture above.

I have just returned from a visit to my mum. After a six-hour journey, two hours more than it should have been, I was glad for a cuppa.
Stood in the kitchen, talking to Mum, I looked out of the window and saw that one of the feeders was almost empty. I commented on this and suddenly found myself in the middle of a righteous fury - aimed at the local squirrels.

Somehow - we have no real idea how - the squirrels have managed to dismantle the metal parts of the feeder and all the food poured out. Even worse, after a search, I could only find one of the metal fixtures - and no screw. Damned if I know what the squirrels are going to do with a single piece of bird feeder. Use it for lessons, perhaps?

Mum, in the meantime, was obsessing over how the squirrels had managed to break the feeder apart...

Perhaps, but I doubt we'll ever see a squirrel with a power drill...
In the meantime, here's a funny picture of a squirrel that appears to have been a little too hungry for its own good.

Rare Breed Week: Spot the birds

Wotcha and welcome; we've got another themed week for you, one that is all to do with The South of England Rare Breeds Centre.

Unusually for a 'visiting farm' (one that is for tourism/education as opposed to a true working farm), the SERBC is also a charity, one that helps children and adults with learning difficulties and special needs. Quite admirably, this policy isn't limited to the visitors; when we went, there were a few employees/volunteers that fit this category.
Good for them.

Over the last few months, Julie and myself have been to a number of animal, plant and wildlife places. I hesitate to call them 'attractions, because that makes them sound like some theme park. The wildest ride we have been on with these places was a tractor-and-trailer ride at the SERBC.

It's easily one of the best places we have been to. The entry fee is not too bad, and there is plenty to do and see when you get there. Plenty of animals, usually varieties of domestic breeds in paddocks and fields, a children's petting area. There is also an aviary, but the best birds were the ones that were allowed to roam as they pleased.

Generally, the ducks, coots and other waterfowl were content to stay close to the water (I know, what a surprise, eh?) The Guinea fowl, on the other hand, were somewhat restive and were rarely in the same place for more than a minute. Between curiosity and their almost constant bickering, they were all over the place and we kept seeing one Guinea fowl or another in various locations.

Julie was fascinated by the birds' exotic markings, and no wonder - if you stare at their torsos for too long, it becomes a pretty trippy experience.

...no comment.

The extreme egg fiasco

We have a problem. We like food. Unfortunately, we're not too good at controlling what we eat, nor the quantities thereof. Oh, and by the way, that statement doesn't just apply to my wife and me, but Western civilisation in general. We have come to consume too much of the wrong things and too much in general.

I'm currently trying to work with a dietician. Julie, on the other hand, tried that and various diets a long time ago. In the end, we agreed surgery was the only option. Julie had a gastric bypass, a version known as the Roux-en-y procedure.

This, without a word of exaggeration, has changed her life completely. It's entirely probable that it saved her life. Compulsive eating is a psychological problem, one that our primitive bodies are ill-equipped to cope with.

For those who can't stomach (sorry) looking at graphic details of operations, the notion is a simple one. Basically, the stomach is cut in half and the appropriate tubing is connected up to a much smaller gastric pouch.
Initially, the diet is severely limited, but with time, the patient can once again eat much of what they did before - just in drastically smaller portions. Even then, the stomach is still an elastic organ. It can stretch, and does. However, even taking that into account, one would still never be able to eat the massive portions as before.

It's a difficult situation, not just for the patient. A lot of human social interaction is based around the consumption of food and drink, and most pubs, cafes and restaurants don't really understand the concept of needing a tiny portion. Indeed, many get rather shirty when you ask for a child's portion when you have clearly left childhood far too long ago.

So how small does the stomach become after the operation?
About the size of a hen's egg.

Seriously.

Obviously, you're never going to be able to take in what you could, so if you have this op, then you're going to have to take a daily dose of vitamin & minerals in tablet form..
As I mentioned, the stomach may regain some magnitude, but only in a small way. Maybe twice the size of an egg, maybe a bit more.

It's not an exact thing, because everyone is different. Some keep their diet to minimal levels, some find they can't eat certain foods any more; some can't handle sweet stuff, others have trouble with greasy food - oh and it really doesn't take much alcohol either.

So, when Julie and me were in a cafe having a bite to eat, I was ploughing through a nice panini. My wife, however, was gingerly picking at hers. Oh, she was enjoying it, but necessity meant that she had to take it carefully, or she would end up with a side-effect known as 'dumping' - although this is more usually encountered in association with sugary foods.

With this in mind, we began to discuss how much her stomach will have changed in the few years since her operation.

...ummm...
...ok...

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Just in case you didn't know, the World Book Night Prize draw is now closed. We will be filming a clip today for the drawing of the winners and posting the results tomorrow.

Dirty old world

One of the things that Julie and me like to do to relax is to go for a drive. For us, it's a great way to de-stress ourselves. If I have a bad head, for some reason, it works wonders to get into the car and just pootle about for an hour or so. What we like to do is go exploring; lots of little roads, places we've gone past, names we've seen on signposts. Alternatively, just driving along long stretches of road, enjoying the air (if it's warm enough) and listening to music.
That's if Julie manages to stay awake, that is. There's something about the movement of the car that just lulls her to sleep. She has often said that if someone came up with a bed that mimicked the motion of a moving car - while remaining in the one place - then they could make a fortune.

Naturally, we do enjoy the scenery, but as the driver, I tend to miss a lot - we tend to agree that concentrating on the road should be my main objective.* However, because I do pay a lot of attention to details, I often see things that Julie misses or has not seen until then. My peripheral vision will pick up things like the slight movement of a rabbit by the roadside, or some bird of prey hovering over a field.

Red Kite in Wales. Pic from Byrdir, a farm that does accommodation
and has a nice little blog going too. http://byrdir.co.uk/

In contrast, and possibly caused by the aforementioned lulling motion of the car, Julie's visual acuity seems to be less than 20/20...

Quite possibly, love, quite possibly.

*My father was notorious for not being able to keep his eyes on the road. It was very common that we would have to act as a second and maybe even third pair of eyes. I especially recall one family holiday in France. We were driving along one side of a beautiful valley, and Dad was constantly distracted by the admittedly gorgeous scenery on the other side.

(Dad) "That's a pretty chateau over there." 

(us) "It's a very attractive road in front of us, Dad!"

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PS
I'll tell you what; when I went looking for a picture of a red kite, I never expected to find one as part of a blog by a Welsh farm, a farm that has a large amount of accommodation to its name.
The front of the website looked so good, I decided to see what the options for staying there were like. Very nice, as it happens. A beautiful location, nice cottages to stay in... I think I might have to keep this place in mind for sometime in the future (when we have the money, in other words).
Here's the link again http://byrdir.co.uk/

The platypus and the identity crisis.

I don't tend to watch TV that much. This means I need to find an alternative method of finding out the news. Sure, in these times the internet is pretty much the source for all the news you could ever want - and don't want. Or isn't true. Whatever. I'm not that old, in my mid-forties, but I'm certainly of an age and disposition that I prefer to read a newspaper, printed on paper.

Obviously, the question then becomes 'which newspaper'? No way am I going to read the parochial Daily Mail and the Princess Diana-fixated Daily Express. Likewise, I want to actually read news about real things, so that eliminates The Sun and the Daily Star. After that, you then turn you what are known as the broadsheets; The Times and The Guardian. However, they are known as broadsheets for a very good reason - their size. I'm sorry, but I don't want to have to wrestle with my newspaper. Also, I have to admit that while I like to think of myself as being better than reading the redtops with their pictures of topless women, The Guardian and especially The Times are far too highbrow for me.

This leads me to The independent..
However, buying a newspaper every day is a tad pricey, especially when you don't have much money coming in. And this is where the people at The Independent had a cracking idea - why not publish a digest version of the main newspaper - give the main points for each story and then move on.
Since The Independent by definition and reputation is fairly unbiased in its political leanings, this is another point in its favour for me. Also, since the i, as the digest paper is known (including the colour), necessarily cuts out a lot of stuff for the sake of space, this means there is a lot, lot less celebrity crap.
Oh, and the paper is stapled, so no trouble with keeping it all together.
All for 20p (30p on Saturdays, as it covers the weekend).

The i is a great read, for me at least, but there is one feature that Julie, my mother and me all enjoy; the crossword at the back. It's general knowledge, and of moderate difficulty. One feature of this crossword is especially fun for us - the first two (sometimes three) clues across make up a pun. For example, the answer to the across clues could be 'Hart' (a stag) and felt (a soft material, often used for hats). If you put them together, you then get 'heartfelt'. Not a funny pun, but it's a little something just to help you along.

Recently, both Julie and myself found ourselves momentarily stumped by a particular clue.

14A Diving duck (6)

Since other answers had given us _C___R, we should have had enough to work with. Unfortunately neither of us are bird-watchers, and I had a headache in any case. Since our habit is to pass the crossword back and forth, each filling in until we get stuck, did that. and then we fell back on our normal practice; trying to talk it out. We worried at a couple of other problematic clues for a while, and then returned to our diving duck. Initially, we both sat in silence, trying to think is through, but then we tried our emergency option - wild guesses.
On this occasion, the wild guesses were to get a little wilder than before...

Obviously, Julie was in quite a whimsical frame of mind.

By the way, the answer to the clue was 'scoter' (to be honest, I'd never have got that). Have a look at the RSPB page for it.

Letters discuss the RSPB.

There is a charity based in the UK known as the RSPB - the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. In 1891, a few societies with similar aims merged to become the RSPB, and the aim was to prevent birds from being killed simply so ladies could have feathers for their hats. Later, the society's remit was extended to protecting birds and their environments, as it was clear that so much of birds' existence is dependent on the places where they live, feed and migrate.

In case you're wondering, the bird in the logo is an avocet.

More recently, it became painfully obvious that the RSPB needed to widen their focus even further; a neither birds or the flocks exist in a vacuum. Any locale is so much more than the sum of its parts; everything depends on almost everything else. So it is that the society now campaigns for the protection of animals, plants and environments in general, alongside the original focus of our feathered friends. In fact, they recently looked into whether they should change their name to reflect the widened aspect of their interests. However, it was decided that they would keep their name - partly out of nostalgia, partly because they felt it would show potential donors that they are not simply another environment charity, and partly to reflect their moderate emphasis on - guess what? - birds.

That said, and bearing in mind that the RSPB, along the RSPCA (Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals), is one of the biggest animal-related organisations in this country, pretty much everyone knows what the initials stand for.
So, when the question arose in a game of Trivial Pursuit, I was expecting Julie to rattle off the correct answer pretty smartly.

Silly me.

So Julie. What do the initials stand for?

Indeed.
To learn more about the RSPB and its work, visit their site.
Oh, and my humblest apologies for the terrible pun in the title.

The Birds of Time

(heh - sounds like a Doctor Who adventure, doesn't it?)

We have a nice pier in Eastbourne. In fact, considering the fiery fates of the pier in Hastings and West Pier in Brighton, the town and city either side of Eastbourne, it's doing rather well.

Yes, it needs a coat of paint, but it still has that essential Victorian seaside charm. Having said that, when we went past it last time, I noticed something wrong...

No, even Julie didn't know what that meant, either. However, as she said, "it sounds good, though, doesn't it?"

Painting the sky with feathers

It's time for a certain young guest star once more :-)

Sharron and her family were visiting her mother-in-law, who had recently been seriously ill and now returned home. The weather was quite pleasant, apparently, which made a nice change from the wind and rain that had been hammering the northern parts of the country for some days. In fact, the sky was a beautiful shade of blue, so much so that Sharron remarked on it to her daughters. They looked out of the windows, and then the youngest daughter said:

You gotta love the surreal innocence of kids, eh?

One of these things is/isn't/is like the other (huh?)

We went out for a little stroll along the seafront today. As I'm still a bit iffy on my feet, what with the slipped disc and all, we had just stopped for a little rest on a bench - on the seafront. It being the seafront, there were plenty of seagulls around, including the shrill squeals of hungry young gulls. It was enough to make you want to buy a shotgun, I tell you.
The gulls weren't the only ones though. Because I live in a town, there were of course the omnipresent pigeons, those horrible little feathered plague pits.
No sooner had we sat down than one particularly ugly pigeon fluttered down and began to strut back and forth in front of us - on the off-chance we had something it could eat. Push off, Percy. Not happening.
And then I noticed one of its legs looked particularly deformed.

...er... Yes, dear.
Now, the thing was, I hadn't actually taken my notepad with me. As we were leaving, I told Julie, "Now, don't say anything funny, please."
And then she comes up with the comment above. For a moment, I let it slide. Then I started rummaging in my pockets desperately. No way was I risking the chance of forgetting this. In the end, I found a shop receipt and scribbled it onto the back of that. That'll teach me.

Actually, this Gem reminds me of one of my all-time favourite jokes - well, it's not so much a joke as an exercise in dada-ist absurdism

I say, I say, I say - what's the difference between a duck?
One of its legs is both the same.

See? silly, isn't it?
Anyhow, I shall now leave you with further avian absurdism; the hit single, 'Mouldy Old Dough' by Lieutenant Pigeon. At that point in time and for quite some time after, this had the honour of having the oldest person in the charts - have a look at the other pianist...




Well. it was either this or - no, sod it. You know what, I'm going to post this one too. Have a listen to a little-known Genesis single (well, e.p., really); Pigeons.




TTFN!

An 'owler of a mistake

One day, we were out for a walk, enjoying the hustle and bustle, the jostling and incivility of the town centre. Thus it was we decided to break away from the well-trodden path and wander along some quieter roads. As it happened, this took us through a rather nice residential area; the kind of urban place where the houses usually have two driveways, at least one of which with a large wrought iron gate preventing access to unwanted visitors, such as canvassing politicians. This is not to say we couldn't appreciate the detail of the architecture and the gardens. The places weren't that large, admittedly, but to someone living in a mid-terrace house, they were verging on the palatial.
As we were passing one house, Julie caught sight of a stylised garden ornament, one with vaguely bird-like features.

Imagine something like this, but with a little less shape
The colour's right though.

The ruddy colouring on the bird's breast gave away the type of bird the ornament's designer had in mind.
Well, in his or her mind, anyway. Not in Julie's.

*sigh*
Better scratch ornithologist off the list of possible careers for Julie...

How the Dodo really went extinct.

We had my folks down to say this weekend gone and had a great time. Lots to catch up on, things to discus and talk about generally. Food was eaten, both at home and in a restaurant, and that too was very enjoyable.
However, all this pales into insignificance when we get the board games out.
Long-time followers of this site will know that the combination of Julie and the games Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit are particularly good for providing us with entertainment beyond the original intent. Then too, if you include my father AND alcohol... Well, now.
With that in mind, this week is going to be mining the rich vein of Gems found during the course of this weekend, and we'll begin with a question asked by my father.

Imagine the scene; Reading out questions can be thirsty work. I have just finished asking my mother a series of long questions and am rewarding myself with a nice long gulp of refreshing water (yes, water). It's my turn to be asked a question, so Dad pulls a card from the box and reads out the following...

Seeing the question has provoked an entirely unexpected response, Dad breaks off. By this time though, I am having serious trouble breathing, let alone actually swallowing the water in my mouth, my mother is laughing hysterically at me (so much for sympathy there...). Julie, on the other hand isn't quite sure what's going on. Something's not quite right, but she can't put her finger on it...
Eventually, I manage to swallow the water and, after some deep breathing, establish that Dad had actually meant to read out 'much-lamented'.
Who'd have thought that the poor Dodo hadn't been hunted to extinction after all, be had been mass-killed by a fleet of steam rollers?

Mind out for that stea... oh...never mind...