wendy house

Aquaintance: you are looking really lythe, you’ve lost a lot of weight* since I last saw you, what diet are you on?

Small Business Owner (SBO): the poverty diet

Aquaintance: [silence]

SBO: eating one meal every three days is a sure way to quickly get really lythe

Egyptian guide (EG):  Saladin did one terrible thing which we cannot forget.  He masa creed 400 dinner guests

Wendy:  Killed 400 dinner guests?

EG:  yes

Wendy: I think you mean massacred not masa creed

EG:  the Americans say Masa creed

I decided not to contradict her assertion of how Americans pronounce ‘massacred’.  My role was only to ask questions, follow instructions and make impressed noises.  For example,  she was the director of where and when I could take photographs insisting that her prescribed locations were best.  She argued with me if I chose not to comply with her suggestions.  She told me to hurry up and move on when I decided to take photographs outside of her prescribed opportunities. 

Luckily I’ve escaped from her clutches to my friends home. My friend knows how to

• ‘not know’
• acknowledge her own linguistic and meaningful creativity
• allow her guests to make thier own judgements (about where to take photographs)

In a mock Bavarian village nestling in the Cascade mountains there is an store that specialises in selling Australian goods.  I purchased a fake Zebra skin cowboy hat that kept the sun from my neck in the Nevada desert and New York.  The Australian Zebra skin hat will be joining Eric and I in the Egyptian desert next week. 

Todays texts:

Friend in Cairo: How do you fancy camping overnight in the Desert next Thursday? Tents and drinks provided.

Wendy: YES PLEASE!

continue reading “desert holiday hat”

Tiger: you were sat under your tree
Wendy: my tree?
Tiger: In Kingfisher field
Wendy: the copper beech?
Tiger: yes.  before I came to call for you, first I would come by the field and look under the tree because you were often there,  you did a lot of your exam revision under the tree
Wendy: yes, I remember now. The tree was very helpful.  A calm, wise tree.  A girl’s got to develop a strong bond with a well established tree during her formative years. I had completely forgotten it.
Tiger:  Oh, Honey,  you are SO fickle

This blog post was bought to you courtesy of a cellular connection infront of Salisbury cathedral on a sunny September saturday courtesy of the letter T,  the colour green, and the shade of a conker tree.  Another day, another tree. Some things don’t change, other things change frequently. Perhaps it’s time to find a tree in Reading…

The day after my outstandingly fabulous Birthday party:

Spotty dog:  last night you said you were going to give up drinking, become a vergetarian, start cooking and join a gym

Wendy:  gosh,  I was in a good mood,  you realise this is a progressive plan,  one thing at a time,  each is conditional upon achieving the step before,  do you want a glass of champers with the mister man cup cake?

Wandering around the stunningly topiaried gardens of a stately seat in Kent. There some some significant, and in significant, discoveries:

• a pole dancing topiary bear
• a Virgin balloon full of hot stagnent air
• Woodwormed Jacobean panels beside a spiral stair
• Ms Scarlet’s radical stealth mohican-style crop of not-ginger hair
• some bushes (not Scarlet’s)

On a cold rainy August UK day my high school friends and I warmed our hands on hot Mocha’s outdoors in convent garden under the shelter of a large unmbrella.

A real frothy treat.

During our trip to Cornwall Flat Eric made some west country friends, including Jamie Bear, who now sends Flat Eric post cards, care of the Wendy House.  Jamie Bear prefers surfing to crosswurdz and indulges in creative spelling, 

Hoorah! 

Looks like curdles aw ’round

A Sunday afternoon in Helston. 

Spotty dog and I had confused Helston and Helford.  Thinking we were catching a bus to the seaside town of Helford we caught a bus to the inland town of Helston.  As we wandered through Helston looking for the coast we stumbled upon the town park.  A skateboard park with a coffee bar and dozens of fathers walking their children around the pond.  A veritable single-father-fest,  no-doubt influenced by the proximity of a substantial military base on the outskirts of town. 

I managed to keep my eyes firmly on the duckies. 

No dribbling.

In different Falmouth stores Spotty dog and I simultaneously whipped out our new-fangled plastic cards to pay for lovely pressies.  Much to our suprise these words greeted us:

“we don’t take cards here, cash and cheques only’  

Neither of us use cheque-books.  We trundled off on a quest for cash-points,   only to find that Brett couldn’t help us and we couldn’t have called him for help even if we had his number.  Tricky.

On a Falmouth street an elderly gentleman caught me gazing into his front garden, admiring the plants.

He came out and apologised that his wife, who maintained the garden, wasn’t available to give me a tour of the tiny garden and name specific plants.

Spotty dog and I then accompanied him on his walk down a steep hill to the dentist.  On the walk he told us how his house was once a Quaker school and brief histories of several other houses on the street.

Cornish folk are extremely personable.

The locals on Helston bowling green persistently tried to get Spotty dog and myself to join them because they needed what they called ‘young-blood’ especially that of ladies.  Spotty dog and myself managed to escape with all our own blood before the games ended

A couple of friends are in the process of selling one and purchasing another gorgeous home in downtown Reading, near the Wendy House. 

There’s one slight hitch in the plan

In 1998 the local council placed an access restriction on the to-be-purchased property.  Pedestrians and vehicles cannot access the house from …   …the public highway.  There is no other obvious route to the house.  The current resident ignores this restriction.  How can my friends get from the roadway to the house without breaking the law?  Without:

• using a Vehicle:  A device or structure for transporting persons or things; a conveyance?
• being a Pedestrian: A person traveling on foot; a walker?
• accessing  the property from the  Road?

friend:  that’s a pretty top

Wendy: it goes all the way down to my knees

friend:  lets call it a dress

Wendy: yes, lets

Thanks to Mrs. Pouncer for pointing out this entertaining sign on the front door of a Reading nightclub targetting clientelle of a gay disposition who will benefit from some illustrated suggestions on courtship techniques.

HIF: Did you enjoy your holiday in Italy?

Wendy:  yes

HIF: are you all fresco’d out?

Wendy:  yes

The Piccolomini library in Siena was outstanding, fabulous books, floor tiles, wall frescos, ceiling frescos, quiet ambience, excellent lighting and virtually no other visitors.

On Friday in Joe Allen’s*   Exeter St. restaurant Mrs. Pouncer partook of some Chardonnay,  Scarlet Blue imbibed some Mules and I took a small Boddingtons or four.

I can unreservedly, with miss spellings and split infinitives, confirm that Mrs. Pouncer is in person everybit the stylish counsellor that her entertaining blog suggests.  During our brief encounter I discovered the true extent of my lack of knowledge of advance eyewear handling techniques.  Mrs. Pouncer arrived at Joe Allens equipped with both fabulous stories and the four sets of eyewear necessary to fulfill all advanced eyewear handling techniques.  Needless to say I learned a thing or three. 

I can also confirm that Ms Scarlet Blue’s hair was of a certain colour and that meeting her has brought new dimensions to my understanding of the word ‘cute’.

* no relation of Mrs. Pouncer’s acquaintance Keith Allen, father of Lily Allen.

Wendy House service will be temporarily sub-sub-standard while flagrant‘ Happy Birthday to us’*  activities are conducted in Italy accompanied by this years soundtrack courtesy of Eyan …

* us = people I know (Eyan, Jenn, Angela, Dr. Phil, Prof. Dave) and pobably quite a few people that I don’t know…

What is the best 45th birthday present for a Wendy?  A four day weekend in Siena with spottydog as

• tour organiser.
• tour guide. 
• conversational sparring partner. 
• first-aid specialist,  she’ll have the plasters for when I fall-over, which she reliably informs me that I will, because I’ll be looking up at the architecture rather than at street-level obstacles.
• personal shopper,  because she has this uncanny skill for inducing me to part with cash like no other person I have ever met.
• extended memory.

Excitedness levels have already reached amber.  Spotty dog has cunningly avoided booking through the recently defunct XL, travelling at ridiculous hours of the day,   waiting at transport interchanges for silly, silly, times and other such icky nonsense.

When spottydog visited the Wendy House I gave her a full 1 minute tour.  The full 1 mintue tour is the executive version of the 30 second tour.  It is akin to the 15 minute Hamlet only quicker and with less literary credibility.  As audience, spottydog’s role was to provide her unique insight into potential lifestyle developments.  Half way through the tour,  near the end:

Wendy:  this is my wardrobe (US = closet.  A closet is a place where you keep skeletons, hence the title of this post)

Spottydog: that’s orderly

Wendy: its half empty

Spottydog:  its organised by colour and size,  even the shoes

Wendy:  Errrrrmmmmmmm…….   …is that bad?

Spottydog:  its not scatty

Lifestyle development suggestions involved, ‘open the beers’ and ‘you need more plants’.  Spottydog, spot-on again.

One of the larger (circa 1862) houses in my street hosted a street-garden party where I ate oodles of triffle and met dozens of neighbours who chose to buy homes there because of the:

• good nearby schools.
• curved, quiet, tree-lined street.
• proximity to town, buses, trains, work.
• nearby co-op store.
• beautiful old houses at reasonable prices.

Each of us introduced ourselves by name and house number, I became ‘Wendy at n(a)’.  My introduction received one of two common reactions:

1. Oh,  the cute one that isn’t really on the street!  We knew Marion who lived there before you.
2. Where is that?  We know [name] at n+1,  n,   and the empty new house n(b),  there is no house between them.

Uncommonly, the Wendy House doesn’t have a frontage on the Street.  It is hidden behind n+1 with the pathway approach unintuitively placed between n+1 and n(b) rather than intuitively between n and n(b).  I discovered that a prior resident of this Wendy House,  Marion:

• moved in soon after the stable was converted to a house,  mid to late 1960’s.
• moved out in 2002.
• died in 2005.
• was a kept woman,  no-one knew who her patron was.  My deeds show the house was owned by Brian during her time here.
• would stand at the gateway and chat to passers-by. 

My plan to become the wierd lady with the hats was generally well recieved.  One neighbour may give me an old set of oak gates from a local house currently stored in his stables which haven’t been converted into a residence for a working woman.

A Reading friend of London extraction recently took a vacation in the wild west of the English Riveria.  She was pleased to discover that all modern conveniences are available in Paignton.  No longer do people on the English Riviera have to share their teeth with ancesters, neighbours, or complete strangers.  

No more waiting for a person to finnish using their teeth before you can enjoy a crunchy-nut peanut butter sandwich. You can hear my friends excitement:

New Dentures??!! - as oppose to??!! Used dentures, one careful lady owner??!!  Priceless!

Schrockthehouse recently pointed out that there is a shop in Oxford dedicated to keeping me informed about the goings on in the world,  called the Wendy news shop. 

while visiting Seattle this April I met with many local friends, indulged in lots of purring, stroking, creaky-meowing, general faffing and furring-up-nosing.   All in the best possible taste.

A spiritual sensitive spent the night in the Wendy House guest room. He picked-up on Wendy House memories.

The house remembers several of policemen looking at the bedroom wall over the kitchen. On several occasions since I’ve since seen flocks of policeman on bicycles swarming past, the Wendy House. He also saw a fellow on the landing darkly dressed, silent, wearing a bowler hat, watching the police people search, not ominous. I wonder what the house remembers?

I wonder how I can find out what the house remembers through more conventional means than dream observations… …dreams have revealed nothing to me… …yet…

My Geordie friend called IPS a second time to make sure they were fully appraised of quite how insulting it was to be deemed inelligible to verify my passport photo because she had opted to stay at home to bring up her young children.   She spoke to a different person who told her she is eligible to sign my passport photograph.  

Do you think they’ll replace my passport?…  …its been gone for 2 weeks….  …will they send me a 1 year scatty person passport or the full 10 year reliable-person version? 

A professional person that has known me for at least 2 years had to sign my passport photograph to verify it was a true likeness. A Geordie friend of 21yrs that I met at Loughborough University did the honours. She’s currently a full time mum. It didn’t occur to me, silly me, that full time mum’s don’t count as professionals worthy of verifying identity. Even if they have British passports, clean driving licences, no criminal records, like my friend. IPS rejected her. She’s mightily insulted, that’s insulted that takes about 90 mins to fully detail . I’ll have to track down a friend that’s currently employed, even retired professionals don’t count because obviously they get unreliable and dishonest once they retire….

I’m currently somewhere in Cambridgeshire dressed as a 1940’s French Cabaret artiste pretending to be at a dinner party in Casablanca while trying to work out which of the other guests,  or me,   murdered someone.  

I’ll probably need some character witnesses so vouch for me,  if you see me.

“I don’t know the way to wiggle”

this statement was made by a very vertically challenged young boy probably as short as 4yrs old.  A person that short really should know the way to wiggle.  I gave him a demonstration,  he wasn’t amused.

“why have you got a handbag?”

Asked the father of above short person and friend since we were both 4 years short.  He and said young wiggle-free-youngster failed to refrain from laughing when asking this question.  I explained that I was in training to be a real woman and that this involved taking a handbag everywhere.  I only managed 2 days in the England before I gave up on the handbag thing,  too many short people surrupticiously giggling at me. 

“you should be able to climb an E2 without any trouble based on your build and fitness”

 I took another swig of wine and grunted.  In the UK I only climbed to S (Severe).  In the US on indoor walls at 5.8 (equivalent of UK VS, Very Severe).  This climber was telling me the only obstacle to my climbing a higher grade was my attitude.  Plausible.

“we recognised you from a distance despite the blue hat”

A friend that has known me since I was 5yrs short announced ebulantly.  Despite the blue hat?  I’d been labouring under the misaprehension that my hats were my most distinguishing feature.  Apparantly it’s actually my skinny legs and deportment (wiggly walk).  I’d already given up on the handbag thing by now.

“Please kill my fish”

short person while jumping up and down and wringing her hands together.  The conversation quickly went down hill from here.

Has curry ever killed anyone? 

This excellent question came from my niece and left me picturing people drowning in curry,  curry pans falling on people’s heads,  people exploding from eating too much curry etc 

“I am tall, blonde and tanned”

Having not met or seen photographs of said fellow I was anticipating short and bald with the pants of Khaki Cargo.  I made the most of this rare opportunity to feel short again.

“is wearing kharki cargo pants and dark blue t-shirts Microsofts uniform?”

asked by a person unaware of my blog who worked with Microsoft Reading.  I replied that its not limited to Microsoft employees….   …I suspect it’s a viral disease…  …like overuse of ellipses…

“would you like another cup of tea?…    ………..silly question really.”

An old friend who had temporarily lost the plot then regained it after a liberal dose of ellipses.

Russian: V-eye durs yrrrrr tea shrut say zeeez?*

Wendy: guess

Russian: No.  V-eye durrs eat say zeeeez?

Wendy:  it’s my age and….

Russian: NO…       …NO…     …NO..   … NO !

shaking her head which flings her hair in a whirlwind effect. The ‘no’s sneak out as her faces passes mine during its wild swings

Wendy:  yes-yes-YES and it’s THE answer to life the universe and EVERYTHING have you read……

giggles, nearly falls off chair in all the excitement and the rare opportunity of repeating the word ‘yes’ in quick succession as the Russian finishes my sentence by telling me what her guess was…

Russian: Durglurrrrrrrs arrrrderms, ysss,  I sort dat frhurst.  

Russian: NO

Wendy:  YES.  I’ve maintained my immaturity 

I think I’ve blown my cover as a real professional adult type person.  This Russian has excellent interrogation skills.  Between the two of us I think we’ve cornered the local (within 100yards) charismatic foriegner quota.

* apologies for my atrocious Russian accent. Hers is, naturally, outstanding.

it’s firework’s night in the UK,  401 years since the gunpowder plot.  Below is a rhyme topical to the time of the event.  Most contemporary English people know the first verse and if you say the first line out loud will join in for the second line.  According to Wikipedia the latter verses were gradually lost to shared memory due to lack of use through content offensive to catholics:

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,’twas his intent
to blow up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below,
Poor old England to overthrow:
By God’s providence he was catch’d
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, make the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
Hip hip hoorah! 

A penny loaf to feed the Pope.
A farthing o’ cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down.
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Burn him in a tub of tar.
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head.
Then we’ll say ol’ Pope is dead.
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah!

Bonfire night is an annual English event that, for me in the US, is emotionally replaced by July 4th (fireworks celebration) and US elections on November 7th. Today’s bang! started on the November 4th at a friend’s birthday party. 

Hoorah! 

(imagine a couple of Hip swings for good measure)

Fun and beer all around,  in mouths and beards.   Memories of fireworks from July 4th in the US that make me feel closer to the November 5th celebrations in the UK:

Even better, a present (US = gift) turned up in my post (US = mail).  It isn’t even my birthday.  It is,  however, close enough to call this a surprise Birthday present