How I know I must be in labour

Just checking out a fellow blogger's baby experiences and a big advert pops up with great big letters asking me, 'ARE YOU IN LABOUR?'


Well .... I wasn't expecting to be, and I'm 48 next birthday, and certain surgical procedures have been undertaken that we were assured were usually permanent ...


but I guess it's POSSible.


So, maybe I AM.


Hang on!  But that means .... Oh, gosh, I'm so reLIEVED.  This explains EVERything .....


The gradually increasing waistline (now I don't feel so bad about that elastic giving way and pinging into the face of the lady on the bus).


The feeling that I need to lie down in a bed most of the day (now I can tell my boss that there is a REASON I need to teach from a supine position).


The flutterings in the tummy I keep thinking are hunger (now I know there's a baby in there needing food, I can have three cakes instead of two).


The mood swings (now I can carry on moving from 'I feel great' to 'I feel lousy' through to 'If you turn it over to classical music one more time, sunshine, you're getting this crunchy nut icecream down the back of your neck' without feeling bad when accused of being volatile).


The groaning scales (now I can celebrate each kilo as evidence of a growing baby and can just carry on blaming the weight gain on someone else - as I have been already).


The fact that I can't reach the sink to wash up the dishes any more (now I can leave Husband to do this while I put my feet up, eat chocolates and yell my normal instructions about wiping the surfaces down properly from the lounge).


The deep abdominal contractions (I thought that was just my normal instinctive reaction at the sight of chocolate but now I know they are the first stirrings of an arriving infant I can eat as much chocolate as I like in preparation for the hard work of delivery).


You know, I am so glad I have finally identified the source of all these signs and symptoms.  For a moment there, I thought I was going to have to DIET!  Ha ha ha.  How funny!  And there was me, all ready to go and buy Ryvita and lettuce.  How silly I'd have felt, thinking I was just getting FAT, when all the time I was in labour.


All the time since Christmas, in fact!


Which is quite a long labour, when you think about it.


But, at my age, you expect things to slow down a little.


I reckon that baby's not coming until at least May.


And before May is my birthday.  Chocolate time.


And Easter.  Chocolate time.


And, of course, everyone brings chocolates when you've just had a baby.  Including your other children (ages ranging from 19-26).


Who will be quite surprised by the baby.


As I was.


As will my Husband be.


Hm.  Interesting times ahead.  I'll let you know.


(Ooohhh!  That was a sharp one!  Maybe I'll call the ambulance, just in case.  I'll just finish these chocolate-covered brazils first.)

How I have time to write poetry and still eat lots of chocolate

An appropriate name for a handy form of poetry which you can write but still have lots of time for doing other things because it only consists of two words 

Terse

Verse

What I do after six hours in town desperately searching for an original present for a male relative and have lost the will to live and no longer care that it's what everyone else will get him, too

Buy

Tie

The result of spending too much time eating chocolates and cakes and biscuits and puddings and not enough time working out in the gym

Bigger

Figure

What I got when I accidentally put my sleeping tablets in Rover’s food bowl instead of worming tablets

Groggy

Doggy

A description of the feelings of a pet bird when its cage door has been left slightly open by mistake and the family cat is approaching

Wary

Canary

A poem about a guy who sits in the corner of the pub drinking only lemonade but insists on repeating funny stories everyone has heard before

Anecdotal

Teetotal

The most difficult thing to be doing in the middle of the night when you got to bed late anyway and now desperately need to get back to sleep because you’ve got a busy day tomorrow

Ignoring

Snoring

More evidence that spelling maters

I kid you not.  Subsequent to my recent mention of a pupil having inadvertently changed 'Turn of the Screw' to 'Turn off the Screw', thereby supplying me with a blog post idea, I have just seen another reworking by a different pupil.  This time, the book has been turned into a novel about a tiny woodland mammal who never gets picked in sports competitions for anyone's team, but who, one day, is selected.  It's called 'The Turn of the Shrew'.  Classic.

So, what else to do, but to browse one's bookshelves for other potential animal classics ...?

'Mansfield Bark' - a novel set in 18th century England countryside in which the main characters are well brought up dogs who wear bonnets, bows and dresses.  These dresses reveal a not-inconsiderable portion of their chests.  They live in a manor house and hold a ball for all the local, lower-class dogs, during which there is a competition to see which of the dogs has the best bark.  Of course, the Mansfield dogs win, as it would not be seemly for dogs of a lower status to do so.  The dogs leave the ball, but do not dare complain about the injustice until they reach the end of the two mile long driveway.  Then, they all leave their calling cards just inside the tall, iron gates, even though that usually only happens between 2 and 3 in the afternoons.

'Purrsuasion' - Same story, but with cats.

'Pride and Prejudice' - same story, but with lions.

'Northanger Rabbit' - same story, but with ........... oh, okay, then, I'll stop the Jane Horseten books there and try something else.

'Lice in Wonderland' - A fantastical but tragic tale in which, finding themselves homeless after successful application of a strong chemical to a child's head, a family of nits discover a door which leads them into a strange and wonderful land.  They live on a rabbit for a while, but he is always rushing about and, as many of the family suffer from vertigo, they decide to move on.  A chess board provides a temporary home, but they have to live on the black bits in order to avoid being spotted and this proves tedious.  In the end, they are all attracted by a sweet and cloying smell one day, fall into a jam tart, are eaten by a Queen wearing lots of make-up, and die.

'The Big Sheep' - A sheep stands out among her peers as being unacceptably large and clumsy.  After years of teasing from others in the flock, and cruel jibes thrown at her by visitors to the farm such as 'Blimey!  You'd need a lot of mint sauce for that great lump!', she decides to throw in her career as a farm animal and try something else.  A couple of evening courses later, she goes into detective work, taking the name of 'Baa-lowe'.  She finds all the corpses unpleasant, and the staggering number of characters she meets makes her giddy at times - there has never been much need before to remember anyone's face.  But she turns out to be surprisingly handy at following criminals around in the wintry season, when camouflage is not so much of a problem for her.  She never works out who murdered the chauffeur, but she can cope with not knowing, because it's a damn sight better than being on a plate with roast potatoes.


'The Adventures of Huckleberry Fish' - Huckleberry Fish knows he should be in a school, but instead he prefers to wander around the sea, getting into scrapes and occasionally climbing onto a raft, although he soon finds that breathing is easier underwater and so that's only temporary.  He loves the free life, but when another young fish comes along and says, 'I saw yer swimmin' along and wunnered whether you'd fancy a comin' along with me and meetin' my ole Aunt?' he goes along with it for a while.  But when the Aunt starts trying to tidy up his fins and make him swim along in an ordered and civilised way he decides to go back to his old life.

'Pigmalion' - A young farm pig is taken on by an older one (Professor Piggins) who attempts to teach him to behave in a more socially acceptable way.  After many, many sessions in which the young pig walks around the pen balancing books on his head (disconcertingly, a set of cookery books found in the farmyard kitchen, one entitled 'Ways with Pork') they embark on improving the way he pronounces his 'oink'.  There is progress, but some unfortunate incidents at social events hold things back.  Also, reciting 'The Rain in Spain falls Mainly on the Plain' doesn't seem to get them anywhere with making 'oink' sound more cultured.  In the end, though, the young pig flowers, suddenly and very surprisingly, into a beautiful young woman with many social graces, and she goes off on her own, leaving Piggins to meet his fate as one of the recipes in the book.

Evidence that Miss can get a link right twice in a row

Hey, you poets, and even you not-poets-but-why-not-have-a-go-darn-its.  Have you seen the Applehouse Poetry Workshop blog?  It's coolio.  You get set a challenge like 'Write a 100-line poem containing no vowels' and 'Write a sonnet shaped like a limerick'

No, not really - I'm only joking - although it sounds a great idea for a blog.

You do get set a challenge, but they're a bit more sensible than that.  I loved the New Year one in which you write a list of things you've never done and then finish with something you have.  You'll see my poem in the comments (I've mentioned it in my 'What I've Just Read' list - go and see why) and there are some fab poems being offered.

Here's the LINK, THE LINK, THE LINK, TO LILY THE PINK, THE PINK, THE PINK ... or, in fact, to the

Applehouse Poetry Workshop Blog

Happy poeming.

(Will this woman ever stop using stupid made-up words, using capital letters, and digressing from the point?)



(No.)

Evidence that it's never too late to learn, even if you are going grey and have saggy bits

Yay! Yay! I have learned how to create a link which isn't just the boring old URL by attending the Mark Kerstetter school of blogology and listening carefully, so thank you, Mark. The link (I did a link! I did a link!) is way, way longer than the URL itself which is the kind of irony I really, really like. If you press on this link (link! link! I did a link!) you will get to my guest blogger spot on Mark's blog on which he posts arty-farty things I barely understand but also Friday Flash pieces which I think are great. Enjoy using Miss' s very first ever link. Yay! Yay! Yay! I'm not as past it as I thought I was. (Yawn, yawn, oh my word, is that 8pm, it must be bedtime, bring me my cocoa, dear.)

Evidence that spelling really does mater

Have you heard of the novel called 'Turn Off the Screw'?  I noticed it mentioned in a student's exercise book recently and I was most intrigued.  I have read one with a similar title by Henry James, but this one was new to me.  Perhaps it was about some children whose governess has special skills in plumbing and who, to keep them busy and to keep their minds off some strange behaviours she indulges in, gets them involved in helping her sort out all the water systems in their large Gothic house.  (Large Gothic houses are well known for not having the best plumbing - this explains why so many of them burn so easily and quickly in books.)

How different things would have been if similar misspellings had changed the titles of other well-known classic texts ...

The Picture off Dorian Gray - the tale of Mr Gray, a handsome young Victorian who has his portrait painted, but then refuses to have it hung on the wall, instead insisting on taking it everywhere with him.  This makes romantic relationships difficult, particularly when necessitating close contact, as none of his lovers can persuade him to let them relieve him of the painting, even for five minutes of bliss.  Bigger, more spacious beds are purchased, but this does not help.  Sales of a recent (under the counter) text entitled 'Pleasing Your Man While Negotiating Large Artefacts' soar through the roof.  But still, relationships founder and he dies alone.  Well, not quite alone.

The Portrait off a Lady - A short but tragic tale written by a Mr Gray about the one time a lady friend managed to grab off him a picture he had had painted of himself and about the ensuing struggle he had to get it back.  (This book did not sell well - there were many mistakes in it as the publishers found it hard to read Mr Gray's awkward style of handwriting.)

The Lord off the Rings - a long, long story about The God of Jewellery who, suddenly sick of the sight of celebrities wearing necklaces and bracelets thicker than their hip circumferences, decides he will take a break for a while.  For a time (a long, long time) he sits on a cloud in despair, wondering what else to do, but as his skills lie solely in looking after the world's gold and silver, eventually, to everyone's relief, he comes back to his first love.  While he was on the cloud, though, a worldwide recession hit, of which he was unaware, and he finds that many people are buying cheap costume jewellery instead and saying that it's 'the new Cartier'.  He has less and less to do as a result, gets bored, feels disaffected, and starts scrawling graffiti on cloud formations and TWOCing chariots off angels.  Riding one of the chariots too fast one day, he veers off the heavenly road and crashes into a lorry delivering harps (just as news comes in that the recession is on the turn).

Lord off the Flies - a tale about a group of boys who are stranded on a desert island and, while exploring, find a native chief who lives solely on the insects of the island.  He seems to have done very well on this diet, but suddenly, the sight of pre-teen boys in public school uniforms, picking their noses and singing out of tune, turns him off his food, and he dies of starvation.  The boys examine his cupboards and refrigerator with interest as they are hungry, but the selection (fly pie, fly casserole, flies in aspic, fly jam, flies with salmon and rocket in a cream sauce garnished with a sprig of parsley) does not appeal and they eat each other instead.

One Hundred Years off Solitude - An elderly, wizened gentleman from a remote South American settlement has lived a lonely life.  Up until now, he has been content - he has managed to avoid the other things which have entertained his local community (Spanish galleons beached in the jungle, flying carpets, an iguana in a woman's womb, the coming of the steam engine).  He has lived a hermit's life.  One day, however, he emerges from his house, to the shock of all his neighbours, and declares that having lived for eighty-three years alone, he now intends to live another hundred, but this time as part of the community.  He wishes for full involvement and signs up to several local committees.   Having been so isolated, his community realises, has left him ignorant of the normal life-span of a South American gentleman.  Still, they say nothing.  He dies a month later.

The Grapes off Wrath - a family from America travel to find work.  They find it difficult.  No oranges are in sight.  However, on their travels, living hand to mouth, they try to entertain each other in the evenings to boost morale.  Suddenly, they discover that one member of the family has a tremendous talent.  Whenever he gets angry, bumps appear all over his face - green bumps, with stalks, which then fall off.  At first, the family take him to the doctor but the doctor is baffled.  It is only when the family realise that, as they tramp around the field they are camping in, treading on all these green bumps which have fallen off their kinsman, a rich, tasty liquid is forming which, when sipped from the ground with a straw, makes them feel very happy and not so disappointed about not having found where the oranges grow yet.  They exhibit their kinsman at travelling shows, and become rich.  The kinsman isn't happy at all, as he feels somewhat used, but that only makes more green bumps appear, which is good for family finances, if not for his feelings of self-worth.



Okay, that's enough drivel from me.  I'm of to bed.

Reasons why you should do army training before teacher training

A tragic and moving poem in which a new teacher realises that her expectations may have been somewhat unrealistic ...

I’d read all the guide books on classroom control.

I’d got it all sussed; a quiet class was my goal.

I’d a will made of iron and peace in my soul.

I was calm.

I’d browsed on the Web for discipline tips.

I was fully prepared and completely equipped.

And I just would not tolerate anyone’s lip.

I’d no qualms.

These things I remember now, here in the gloom,

Locked by Tyler O’Neill in the stationery room

Hoping someone from Senior Staff will come soon

With a key.

These things I recall as I massage the bruise

Shazza Rogers inflicted with mile-high shoes

When I dared to mention her F—k me tattoos.

Silly me.

Those nostalgic days when the future seemed bright

Before Shannon and Julie used set squares to fight

And Ryan McPhee set the waste bin alight

With a fag.

I’ll be here all night long on this chewing-gummed floor

Reading John Barrett’s conquests he’s scratched on the door.

I’d be screaming and yelling for help now, but for

This damn gag.