ENGLISH MUM IN IRELAND HAS MOVED! FIND ME AT ENGLISHMUM.COM

Well, I can hardly complain that things are quiet here. I’m busy preparing for the invasion of the fleas. No, not the pestilential kind (well, not really), but the little whirlwinds that are my twin niece and nephew, J&A, who earned the nickname when they were little and seemed to ping from place to place without ever standing still. They arrive on Saturday with my Dad and I’m so looking forward to it. I’m already working on a menu (although we’re heading out to eat on Saturday night) and also the logistics of where everyone is going to sleep. No doubt very little sleep and lots of giggling will be on the cards for Saturday night, but as they see each other so rarely, I’m sure it’ll be overlooked, especially if my disreputable Dad does his usual trick of adding to the mayhem.

After disappearing for several days, the fellas, A&J, are back to continue merrily destroying one side of the house (I’m not sure exactly why, but it’s something to do with finding where the waste to our en-suite goes). They soon discarded the kango, and have now moved on to a mini-digger with a kind of hammer-drill thingy attached to the end. The resulting din and vibration are somewhat akin to living inside a concrete mixer, but they seem to know what they’re doing. I think they regard us as slightly weird (although that’s probably more a generation gap than the Anglo/Irish divide), with our silly cars, indoor dogs and our mad gadgets. When they pop in for a cup of tea they eye Hubby’s ridiculously huge wide-screen TV suspiciously as if they might be sucked in if they stand too close.

I’m also reduced to talking to myself again as little Dizzy has gone back to J’s kennels with a view to being assessed for finding her a permanent home. We would have loved her to stay, but, although happy and affectionate, she struggled with the children: sometimes enjoying cuddles and giving them a good wash, but other times not wanting close contact with them, which proved very difficult to manage. It’s hard trying to explain to two little chaps that Dizzy doesn’t really want to be cuddled, and a couple of close calls were all it took for us (and J) to make up our minds that Dizzy would be happier in an adult home. Obviously one always has to be mindful with kids and dogs – any dogs - and although they tried to treat her with respect, especially with regard to her food and her bed, it was tough. More so with my two who were still missing their very cuddly relationship with B. Poor Dizzy has had a rough life up until now, and I hope we showed her that humans can be kind and gentle, but rest assured J will find her a loving home. I’ll keep you posted.

Not being a lover of housework, but mindful of our impending visitors, I did decide to throw caution to the wind and do a bit of cleaning – just so they didn’t actually leave footprints in the dusty floors. Imagine my surprise, then, when I moved one of the sofas to find poor, quadriplegic Nemo lurking limblessly there. I had a sudden attack of nostalgia for life with poor old B, especially in the knowledge that my Dad never even met her. I don’t know if it’s the anticipation of seeing my family or what, but I sat clutching this stumpy blue and yellow stuffed fish and sobbed big fat tears. No wonder the builders think we’re strange.

From the very start, I’d like to point out that I’m not a fan of Big Brother, or Celebrity Big Brother, or any of those programmes where they put people in a stressful situation in front of a camera when, frankly, these poor souls would be better off being placed in therapy.

I do read the news though, and one of the things that often strikes me when reading the inevitable fallout from these things is the lack of, well, sisterhood demonstrated by these people. As a woman (and yes, I am one, I’ve checked) I’m perpetually astonished and appalled by how women treat each other. Whether this is solely the realm of womankind, or whether men do it too but are just better at hiding it (let’s face it, they’re sneaky gits), I have no idea. I just notice it more with women.

It always seems to start at school (how many times have you thought to yourself how awful and cruel young girls can be to each other?). The scenario is all too familiar: one is prettier/uglier/cleverer/happier/whatever (delete as applicable) than the others. The gang separates, usually leaving one person on the outside of the circle who is then the subject of that favourite of the fairer sex: the whispering campaign. Teenage girls especially are notoriously evil to one another. Once, though, a teeny tiny five year old left me speechless in the playground when she complained ‘can you ask Jennifer to leave me alone? I have enough friends already’. Oh I’m not preaching from my pulpit here. I’m sure I was as bad as the next girl (probably worse), but now I’m older (okay, ancient), it just makes me sad.

For example, and here is my pet hate, there are those that, knowing full well a man has a wife and family, embark on an affair with said man. ‘Oh, it takes two to tango’, they bleat, ‘if he was happy he wouldn’t have looked elsewhere’ and other such rubbish, as they walk off hand in hand into the sunset, while once again some poor, rejected wife faces a new life alone with devastated children and even more devastated self esteem. Nothing knocks your confidence more than the person you love choosing someone else over you. How treacherous; how unsisterly; how downright wrong is that? If he’s attached, walk away for God’s sake. You have ears and eyes – don’t you think if he’s done it to his wife, he’ll probably end up doing it to you? Husband (and Daddy) stealers should be pinned down while their cellulite is photographed at the most unflattering angle and then humiliated with big, blown-up photos of it being posted all around their home town. There you go, there’s a new career in there for paparazzis that have found a conscience, too.

Poor old Jade Whatserface is getting an absolute caning by anyone and everyone at the moment, but I don’t know about her ‘alleged’ racism (although it’s certainly ignorance), her biggest ‘crime’ is her total disregard for sisterhood, for forgetting that another woman is her biggest ally: a potential friend, a source of new and exciting gossip, a prospective cocktail-drinking partner, not a threat, or, god forbid, unwanted competition.

So girls (boys, you can look away now), if you do one thing today, tell your mates how fab they are (even if, like me, you have to now email most of them), what you love about them and the qualities that you most admire. Cherish your friendships, strive to make new ones, and never be guilty of excluding anyone from your social circle, no matter how complete you think it is. Strike up a conversation with the lady next to you in Tesco, compliment a total stranger on their gorgeous handbag and celebrate the fact that we are, obviously, in this together.

Oh, and if you ever find yourself on a reality TV programme, do yourself a favour and take some advice from my fabulous Mum: if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.

Poor Dizzy has been a bit under the weather since we’ve had her. Her back legs seem stiff and sore, and she looks a bit uncomfy when she’s walking. J suggested a trip to M, a well-known ‘muscleman’. This is greyhound terminology for, well, a dog-physiotherapist I guess. So I made the appointment and off we went. The first surprise was that M is also a (very successful) owner, breeder and trainer of greyhounds. The place was huge and his kennel chap told me that there were over 60 greyhounds there. There were certainly dogs everywhere. The land was split up into fenced enclosures of different shapes and sizes and there were dogs rushing around in several fields. There were also more dogs in kennels and others being exercised.

After we’d made our introductions, I was surprised to find that M had Dizzy’s brother, a successful racer, kennelled with him, although I was more emotional at this touching family reunion than Dizz, who took no notice. Then, it was on to the treatment and it was rather a surprise. He found her problem instantly. Showing me her hip bones (easy on a lanky greyhound), he pointed out that the two should be level, but one was definitely slightly behind the other. I suppose much like a Chiropractor, M manipulated Dizzy’s muscles and joints, often creating some rather bizarre cracking and clonking, whilst talking to her in a soft voice. Dizzy, for her part, seemed generally not to mind, although a couple of times she squeaked, more out of surprise I would think. At one stage, M was working on her hips by holding her two back legs up in the air like a wheelbarrow (don’t try this at home, folks). He also stood behind her, put his arms under her front legs and round so he linked his fingers behind her neck and gently lifted her off to ground to re-align her back after manipulating it. I had to suppress a snigger as she dangled there with a ridiculous spaced-out expression. M also worked on her shoulders. Pressing a finger gently between her shoulder blade obviously caused her pain and M likened this to Sciatica - a trapped nerve sending pain all down her front legs. A bit of weird, dog bending later and the same touch caused not so much as a flinch. Clever stuff.

M also took out her stitches, which was difficult as they were rather tight. He wasn’t impressed with the sewing style either. After that, we put a rather spaced-out Dizzy back in the car and M showed me round. M pointed to one particular greyhound being exercised who had a big cheery smile and waggy tail: ‘he won yesterday, very pleased with himself’. I also got to see some absolutely adorable greyhound puppies and got a cuddle with a ravishing brindle pup. He felt like he didn’t have any bones at all and was just a big bundle of squishy warm fur…heaven!

When I got back in the car, Dizzy was blowing very unladylike raspberries in her sleep. Think I might book myself in…

I must just add that I was very sad to hear of the death of the feisty, cameraman-eating Chalky, the little terrier owned by Rick Stein. He lived to the ripe old age of seventeen! Rick Stein’s programmes (if he ever makes any new ones) won’t be the same without Chalky mangling rabbits and de-legging crabs. Maybe him and Becks’ll share a bone or two eh?

I had to show you this photo. Just look at my beautiful supermodel! I can’t believe she’s gone from the stinking, scabby little urchin that slumped in our bathtub less than two weeks ago, into this gorgeous beast! I think she’s probably still a bit skinny, but all her cuts and scrapes are healing well (you can see the ones on her face and wrist are just white patches of skin now) and you can see some really rather dazzling shimmery black patches of fur through all that brown fluff, which is disappearing more with every brush. Furthermore, she has a very sweet temperament, is amazingly affectionate (although generally unconscious, I’ll admit) and is terribly well behaved (we’ll gloss over the Sky remote and the electrical wire..ahem). I’m soooo proud, and I hope B will be looking down on us and giving us an approving wag.

We woke up yesterday morning to find the fields covered in beautiful, sparkling frost. The journey to school turned out to be somewhat interesting. The tiny lanes here don’t really get much use, and they were slick with ice. Pulling out of the end of the lane, the back end of the jeep slid out and I struggled for a second to put myself right. I drove a bit gingerly after that. Some other poor chap had skidded off the road into a ditch, but he’d climbed out the passenger side and was waiting for a tow. After dropping the boys at school, I returned home to find A, who is trying to fix our plumbing, scratching his head looking at the outside drain, along with J, the carpenter (don’t ask – he apparently does toilets too). After much conjecture, it was decided that they would have to dig it all up and have a look. I left them to it.

Seeing as it was freezing and I thought the fields would be a bit crispy for Dizzy’s little paws, we decided to take a nice long walk down the lanes to the village. The trap coat was slightly on the large side, but at least she was warm. She quite enjoyed the walk, but jumped a mile every time a car passed us. It was a slightly longer walk than I expected, but once we got to the shop, she had a wonderful time meeting all the people and got plenty of cuddles and attention. One chap slowed down in a lorry (aarrghh! I thought – no-one around for miles and I’m about to be murdered) on our return leg. Happily, he turned out not to be a serial killer, but meekly wound down the window and asked if we raced her. When I told him no, he said ‘shame, that’s a nice looking dog’. Well, I walked home fairly bursting with pride. I’ll walk that way more often.

When I got home, the fellas had started to dig up the side of the house and throughout the day the initially small hole got bigger and bigger and bigger. I took them cups of tea and worried that the whole house might fall into the massive chasm, but they assured me they knew what they were doing. Later, there was a small knock on the door and a very sheepish looking J. He passed me a large handful of blue shards, which turned out to be the remnants of the cups and the sugar bowl, and explained that the vibrations of their Kango hammer had made them fall off the windowsill. Ah well.

Later, when Hubby came home and the kids were back from school, we built a huge fire and sat warming our toes. Of course, we were all squeezed onto one sofa as Dizzy the cross-eyed wonder dog was spread luxuriantly out on the other one. We started telling her how pretty she was, and what a lovely girl she was, using various silly voices, and she actually fluttered her eyelashes and put her nose down onto her chest as if to say ‘aw, go on, you don’t mean it’.

Another quiet night last night, so looks like she’s finally realised that her bed’s not that bad after all. Mind you, it might have had something to do with her being shattered from the massive walk. I know how she feels, my legs are killing me.

Monday morning again – don’t these bloody Mondays come around fast? Still, we had a lovely Sunday and also a peaceful night’s sleep last night as Dizzy decided to cease her whining and postpone her excavation of the bottom of the kitchen door and sleep relatively soundly until 5am, when she started to cry. I went and shushed her, and she was quiet again until the boys got up. Result. She’s proving to be a very good girl indeed.

So, in the spirit of non-doggery bloggery, here’s what I cooked for Sunday lunch. There’s many variations of Irish Stew (Rachel Allen uses lamb chops) but this is mine:

Irish Beef Stew with Dumplings

Big pack of stewing steak (Irish obviously)
3 tbs plain flour, seasoned
3 tbs olive oil
2 onions, chopped (or use baby onions)
Mushrooms, sliced
Carrots, cut into four
Large glass red wine
2 x beef stock cubes

For the dumplings:

100g self raising flour
50g vegetable suet
Big pinch salt
About 5 tbs cold water

Cut up the meat into large chunks, trimming off all the excess sinew (leave the soft fat – it’ll melt into the stew). Heat the oil in a casserole dish. Season your flour with salt and pepper and toss one handful of meat in the flour, then fry until brown on the outside. Remove this meat to another bowl, and carry on with another handful and so on until all the meat is browned. Then, fry your chopped onions (you might have to add a bit more oil) and reserve those with the meat. Make up your stock with a couple of litres of boiling water.

Next, turn up the heat and slosh a generous glass of red wine into the pan to bubble up and scrape at all the bits in the bottom of the pan. Then add your meat and onions back in along with your stock and mushrooms and carrots. You can also add swede or parsnips. I cut the carrots quite big because I can’t be trusted to remember to put them in later – this way they don’t get too mushy. Stick your casserole in the oven on a low heat (about 160/170 degrees) and forget it for an hour and a half.

To make the dumplings, just bung all the dry ingredients in a bowl and add the water carefully until you’ve got a nice soft dough. You might not need all of it. Roll the dough into little balls (I make seven but..whatever), then just pop them on top of your casserole for the last half hour. Make sure your lid fits properly as they need to steam to make them nice and fluffy.

If you’re devious and cruel, like me, remove a couple of cooked carrots, puree them then add them back into the gravy (don’t tell #2). The flour that coated the meat thickens the gravy and it’s all rather yummy. If you don’t do the dumplings sometimes you may need to leave the lid off for the last bit of cooking to reduce the gravy a bit.

Scoff with fluffy mash and broccoli, ignoring complaints from small children that broccoli is made of poison. It’s not, honest.

Hmm. Turns out J was right. We dug ourselves a great big doggy-shaped hole Friday night by allowing the boss-eyed one into our bed, and last night we fell into it, big style. We put her to bed at midnight, whereupon she started to howl, whine and yap, and attempt to both hurl herself at the door and to dig her way under. This continued until 1.15am, when for a blissful few minutes she stopped. Just as we heaved a sigh of relief she started up again, stopping briefly when I staggered to the kitchen and told her to shut the hell up. She seemed to stop then until about 4am, when Hubby had a go, leading her back into her bed every time she got out. Then she stopped until 5am when she decided she needed a comfort break and waited by the back door until poor Hubby took her out. Finally she settled down until the kids got up at 7.30.

Bleary eyed and exhausted, both Hubby and I had to resist the temptation to club #1 to death with the pepper mill over breakfast when he breezily mentioned that he hadn’t heard a thing.

Still, hopefully the worst is over. We’ve got to continue being firm and soon enough (so J reckons), the ‘midnight warbler’, as she was christened by J, will learn that her night-time place is in her bed in the kitchen, and not snuggled up next to Hubby under the duvet.

To add insult to injury, she then proceeded to give Hubby’s Mum a big lick goodbye, and cry for another fifteen minutes as he left to take her to the airport. Next, she dragged me twice around the field at about 35mph (she will never be allowed off the lead), stood patiently while her feet were washed in soapy water, rushed around the house like some lanky womble, picking up everything that she thought needed to be tidied up, then finally collapsed in her bed upon a huge pile of ‘treasure’ including my slippers, all the rubber ducks from the bathroom, the squeaky ‘Dirty Rotten Kitty’ that I’d ordered for B, #1’s stuffed shark, a pink gingham bone (another of B’s rejects) and a green plastic hippo, and fall blissfully, and noisily, asleep.

Okay, so this is definitely not a case of ‘the Queen is dead, long live the Queen’ as it were. I have to say, though, Dizzy is getting her feet under the table rather quickly – especially since she’s never lived in a house before. Hubby’s Mum is over this weekend and has already become rather taken with this sweet little girl and they have taken to having a walk around the house on a regular basis.

Last night, though, we were rather less enamoured with her. After dozing the night away happily on the sofa, she went out with Hubby for a last walk, then was given a treat before settling down for the night. Ten seconds after the door was closed, all hell broke loose. First came the whining, then the crying, then finally full-on howling. Hubby and I laid in bed wondering what on earth to do, then decided that we’d give her some milk to settle her down. Well, this did absolutely nothing to stem the flow, so feeling rather knackered and defeated, Hubby dragged her bed into our bedroom, where she did her customary three or four turns, and settled down happily.

This morning, though, I had to laugh when I rolled over and saw this…

As foster-parents, I have to say this is not a good start. We’re supposed to be instilling good house manners in her. I’m supposed to be practicing my hardest ‘grrrr’ face in the mirror so that I can be firm with her. J will be less than impressed…oops

So…it’s quiet here without my B. I miss her, and I don’t have a friend to walk with, so I miss our walks, and then J happened to mention that poor, boss eyed, little Dizzy really didn’t like the kennels and cried non stop there and, when being dropped off there, hopped back into the car when she thought no-one was looking. So Hubby and I thought…well, poor Dizzy’s unhappy, and we’re unhappy and we could just offer to foster her, yes, just to help J out…nothing long term…no commitment…just a favour for a friend….because she’s unhappy and…to cut a long story short…there’s a lot less room on our sofa this evening than there was yesterday.

Welcome home Dizzy.