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

Thomas the tank engine, admittedly not well known for his deep and meaningful prose, once said that ‘coughs and sneezles spread diseasels’. And how right he was, for the rampant little bug that first started #1’s snuffly nose has managed to make its way sneakily into Hubby’s system. On the way, it must be said, it has strangely morphed into the terrible and life-threatening illness that is Man Flu.

Now if you’ve never heard of this dreadful affliction, let me walk you through the symptoms:

Man Flu is NOT A COLD, it’s far worse than that and causes irritability, cold sweats, hot dribbly sweats, snot (that the sufferer has to share with everyone in an ‘ew, look in my tissue’ kind of way), sinusitis, petulance, heart palpitations, crabbiness, lethargy and loads of other stuff too. Oh, and did I mention the tantrums?

Man Flu renders the sufferer incapable of all daily tasks, apart, natch, from the hogging of the comfiest sofa and total monopoly of the TV remote.

Man Flu is well known for being worse than anyone else’s cold or flu. Any attempt at one-upmanship will not be tolerated. See ‘irritability’ above.

Man Flu needs to be treated with copious cups of tea, large bacon sandwiches with brown sauce, the entire contents of the biscuit tin and two paracetamol, all taken at regular intervals throughout the day.

Man Flu invokes fits of erratic moaning and whingeing, subjects ranging from the pathetic range of choice in the aforementioned biscuit tin and the general unfairness of it all to ‘how much iller I am than you’, whilst skirting round the dicier subjects of why there’s no tissues left and whether one really can get addicted to Solpadeine.

And finally, before I go back to tending my own brave little soldier, and lest you should need any further proof, I’ll add the following touching scene, played out in McDonalds yesterday (it was the only thing he really felt that he could force down):

Me (in the drive-through queue): ‘What are you having?’
Him (sniffing petulantly): ‘I’m not telling you, you might copy me.’

Man flu, see?

So I’m reading this book at the moment by Oliver James called ‘They F*** You Up’. The title is based on that poem by Philip Larkin:

‘They f*** you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra just for you.’

When I was at college (oh yes, I may be featherbrained but there’s an IQ buried deep in there somewhere) I really enjoyed sociology – all that nature vs nurture stuff is incredibly interesting – and this book is based along those lines. It’s all about whether you really do inherit certain traits from your parents, or if it’s how you’re brought up that makes a difference. James contends that how you were cared for during your first six formative years shapes the person that you are. Nurture, therefore, creates nature.

One interesting point was his argument against the ‘well I’m totally different from my brother/sister but was brought up exactly the same way’ argument. The author argues against this by saying that no, you weren’t brought up the same way. In a family all the children have their own little roles to play and, in turn, are treated differently because of it. Think about it for a minute: were you the oldest, given more responsibility and hence, the one who tried hard to please your parents and echo their values? Or maybe you’re the youngest: carefree and inclined to taking risks? Then there’s the middles, often rebels without a cause, off trying to find themselves and their role in life.

So, your parents treated you differently depending on when you arrived. They bestowed all their hopes and dreams onto you lucky (or unlucky) firstborns, expecting great things, but then quickly cast you aside if a second one came along and expected you to pull your weight. Being required to act responsibly often makes firstborns less inclined to take risks, leaving all the silly buggering about to us pampered and carefree lastborns. Lastborns, in turn, learn how to fit in with (or ‘suck up’ to) our responsible and sometimes bossy older siblings. This can make us good team players. Or, it can make us shifty little manipulators.

All these little quirks and foibles make our parents treat us differently, but that’s just the beginning – the treatment that we receive in our formative years can be affected by how we look, how far apart in age we are from our siblings… all sorts of stuff. But hang on, I thought, something’s wrong. You see, I’m the youngest and although my brothers will probably attest that I got away with murder or got to go to bed later or whatever, I’m certainly not the risk taking nutter that Oliver James reckons I should be. I’m not a team player either; in fact I’m an unsociable sod who has a very small but select group of friends to whom I am incredibly attached. Ah, but James can explain this too: lastborns, living in the shadow of their responsible older siblings, can also be less self confident, although they can also be easier going and more open to new experiences. And he’s right on numerous other things: I’m very affectionate and touchy-feely. And being my parents’ only girl, and a blonde one at that (apparently this is important), this would be borne out by the likelihood that I was cuddled, and possibly given the benefit of the doubt when naughty, more than average.

Captivating stuff eh? So okay, one shouldn’t spend too long analysing oneself. I’m sure it’s very unhealthy. But a little navel gazing can be thought provoking stuff. If you get a chance, buy this book. Or if you’re a sensible firstborn, borrow it from the library.

Can I just point you in the direction of fellow blogger Isitjustme’s roast pork with crackling and baked apples?

I think I actually just drooled on my keyboard.

Seeing as our favourite Sunday lunch of all time is roast lemon chicken, I feel we’re somewhat wasteful with the leftovers as generally I’m too squeamish (or too knackered after the whole Sunday lunch palaver) to bother about picking over the considerable remains of 2kg of chicken, and it just goes in the bin. This Sunday, then, I made a mental note to save the chicken, and spent a mind-numbing half hour picking off each and every little bit of leftover meat. I probably had a good cereal bowl full after I was done (and Bertie got all the icky bits, lucky boy). Here, then, is the soup I made on Monday lunchtime, which we ate for supper (or tea or whatever) along with some of Rachel Allen’s Honey Brown Bread, which is dead easy to make and a very nice way to while away a rainy Cavan afternoon. I’m calling it ‘fragrant’ rather than ‘curried’ as I’m feeling all creative and artistic following the bread-making, and anyway it sounds better.

Fragrant Chicken Soup with Lentils

1 tbsp olive oil
1 large onion, finely chopped
4 spring onions, sliced thinly
1 tsp Garam Masala or curry powder would do I guess
1 bowl cooked chicken, shredded
2 chicken stock cubes crumbled into 1 litre boiling water
1 carrot, finely chopped
Couple of large handfuls of lentils

So heat your oil in a nice heavy saucepan or Le Creuset casserole if you’re that loaded (I want a pink one please, Santa). Finely chop your onion and add to the pan along with a generous sprinkling of salt to stop them browning too much. When they’re slightly softened and translucent add the spring onions. Then sprinkle over the Garam Masala and stir well. Meanwhile, boil the kettle and make up the stock. Add this to the saucepan and then bung in your chicken, carrots and lentils (I used green), plus any other leftover veg you might have floating around.

Cover your soup and leave it to simmer away gently on a low heat until the vegetables are soft and the lentils cooked (nothing worse than chewing on an undercooked lentil) and your whole kitchen is steamy and fragrant. Season to taste, sprinkle on a final flourish of chopped coriander, then trough with mountains of brown bread. Yurrrrmmm.

So picture the scene, then. Saturday night we went en famille to see our new greyhound race (naw, not Bertie – he’s too flabby). Well, dearest reader, he shot out of the traps like a little man possessed and led by at least a length all the way round to within 50 yards of the finish (and, coincidentally, about 50 yards from where we were all standing). I shouted and jumped around so much that my glasses fell off and smashed (I know, bummer) and we were all leaping about, confident in certain victory, when all of a sudden he seemed to run out of puff and started to slow down, whereupon the 2nd and 3rd dog seized their chance and trounced him to the line.

There were wobbly bottom lips and deflated looks all round. Worse, the winning owner was awarded a trophy. A trophy! Still, we got to give him a quick cuddle before he went home with our lovely trainer. It was patently obvious from his general wagginess and happy demeanour (the dog, not the trainer) that he didn’t give a poo that he’d lost. I watched as #2 knelt down beside him and scratched a floppy ear: ‘don’t worry’, he whispered quietly, ‘we still love you’. Awwww.

Obviously sharing the Disreputable One’s genes, as I do (him being my Dad and all, natch) I have today composed a letter to my email provider asking where the hell their promised ‘spam filter’ is, as it certainly hasn’t been busy anywhere near my email recently. The Disreputable One is a complainy-letter-writer extraordinaire and has been known to wangle all manner of freebies just by writing to complain in the most fervent and disgruntled way possible. Hubby believes that I have inherited the ‘complainy letter writing gene’ and I have to admit, I’ve found I’m rather good at it too.

Anyhoo, digressing again. The problem is that I am currently being inundated by the most outrageous amount of crappy spam email imaginable. Since being back online I have received the following:

1. A heartfelt plea from the son of the former rebel leader of Sudan who has 27 million dollars to invest and needs me (ME! Who’d have thought it) to handle his projects as he doesn’t trust middle men. In fact, he needs me so much he’s tracked me down at two separate email addresses.

2. Various notices to inform me that I have won the ‘British Lottery’ not once, not even twice but six times! What are the odds eh?

3. A sweet little message from a lovely Thai lady who is apparently very lonely and wishes to chat to me at her website. Uh huh.

4. Various offers of prescription drugs, including Viagra. Hmm, better get my order in fast.

I mean, leave me the f*** alone, why don’t you. Living in the midst of cows, midges and lots of grass means that impending emails are quite an exciting prospect. Nothing beats logging on and finding a little cluster of news (olds in the case of the Disreputable One as he tells me everything several times), gossip and general chit chat from friends and rellies. It’s so demoralising when half of them turn out to be this load of old cobblers. Honestly, who are these people that sit at home dreaming up these emails to send to people? And do they actually think we’re stupid enough to believe them?

Frankly, I can’t be arsed to help the Sudanese chap spend his dosh, I’m having a hard enough time choosing light fittings, and as for the ‘British Lottery’, dahling nobody says British any more, we’ve gone all patriotic and say English and Welsh and stuff instead. Plus, even more frankly, I’ve got a feeling the real National Lottery might actually bother to spell-check their emails before they send them out. I’m not quite lonely enough to need to chat to the poor little Thai girl (or any of the veritable smorgasbord of other nationalities I’ve received personal invitations from) and being only 36.95 plus postage and packing (thank you Bea) I don’t think I’m in Viagra territory quite yet. Now if the son of the former rebel leader needed help drinking his red wine collection, or the nice Thai lady wanted to offload some vaguely useful kitchen gadgets it might be a different matter, but until that time comes I’d rather my email service did what it said on the tin and bloody shift them out of my in-box. Dear God, I’m turning into my father.

Yours, disgustedly

Cantankerous of Cavan

It’s the National Ploughing Championships next week in Tullamore (you heard it here first, folks). J asked me whether I’d take Bertie down and help man the IGB stand for a day (The Irish Greyhound Board have a trust promoting greyhounds as pets). As it turned out our geography was a bit dodgy and it turned out to be a bit of a long drive, but also I had to tell J that Bert is no good example for anyone wishing to adopt a greyhound. He’s rather over-enthusiastic and having a very large furry rocket coming full pelt at you for a kiss is not going to further the cause, methinks. Now don’t get me wrong, we LOVE Bertie. In fact, he’s the most pampered, indulged, spoilt greyhound possibly in the whole world. He is regularly smothered in kisses, has beds upstairs and down (no idea why as he prefers our bed or the sofa), sometimes gets porridge for breakfast, and has a fur-lined coat for when it’s nippy. But I’m a realist, and let’s face it, they’re not the prettiest looking dogs in the world. In the village shop recently, Hubby picked up a card for the local boarding kennels. ‘Oh, do you have a dog?’ the lady enquired. And on hearing that yes, we have a greyhound, the lady answered ‘I love dogs but they would be my least favourite – they’re so UGLY’.

Now instead of being offended, Hubby nodded sagely. Because, you see, in some ways she’s right. Take the revolting sight of Bertie roaching on the spare bed. He has back legs like grotesquely enlarged chicken drumsticks that are not only completely bald, but because he’s a blue fawn his skin is black, too. He’s huge, spindly and has a ridiculously long nose and skinny tail, too. All of this I can see, but from some angles he’s actually very pretty, as other pictures I’ve posted do prove (unless I’m just blinded by love). Ah well, as me Mam often points out, looks aren’t everything - he’s very warm and cuddly in bed and his fur smells yummy too. Still, we’ll keep him away from the IGB stand. Just in case he frightens the children.

So I was talking to J today and as usual we were wittering on about all sorts of rubbish (how to stop Bertie nicking the biscuit tin and eating all the bourbons, how far it is to Tullamore, that kind of thing) and she usually makes me laugh a lot but today, blimey, I swear I nearly wet myself I laughed so much. Here’s the story:

‘I was in the shower’, she said, ‘when I looked down and noticed I had a big, amber bead stuck to my stomach. Thinking that this was a bit strange, I had a closer look at the big amber bead and it turned out to be…a gigantic, enormous, massive yellow blister.’ Well, this apparently prompted a hysterical bout of running randomly around the bathroom and the bedroom whilst screaming like a girl until, finally running out of puff, she had to lie down on the bed (still squealing) while C (enjoying his role a little too much for my liking) popped the bloody great thing with a needle. Well, all this was enough to have me collapsed on the office floor, but then she casually mentioned: ‘so C put some tom-cat’s piss on it…’ ‘Whoa, hold the bus’, shouts I, interrupting her flow, ‘some what?’ ‘Oh, TCP. For some reason C calls it tom-cat’s piss.’

Well that just tipped me right over the edge and I laughed until my ribs hurt at the thought not only of J running round the house naked and with a mysterious, gigantic pustule on her stomach, but even worse, at C administering that old Laois remedy, a hefty dowsing of tom cat’s piss.

Laugh? I nearly laid an egg.

So I need to tell you about Friday night’s little crisis. I think I told you that there was another house just along from us, didn’t I? So the little fellas were along in next door’s garden playing rounders or ‘it’ or whatever it is children are doing when they all get together and run round in circles a lot, with Little C & L. It was just starting to get dark and Hubby and I were guiltily discussing whether we should have an AFD (Alcohol Free Day – we talk about them a lot but rarely manage one) or crack open a bottle of red, whilst planning an evening of CSI. We had just made a note to give the kids their 5 minute warning for coming in, judging 8.30 as not unreasonable on a weekend evening. Well, all of a sudden, hell broke loose. The back door slammed open and in rushed #1 in full panic mode. From then on, the evening went something along the lines of:

#1: ‘Comequick! Little C hascuthimselfandisbleedingeverywhere aaarrrggghh!’
Us: ‘Wha…?’
#1: ‘Hurry! There’s blood! Lots of blood!’ (looks very white and starts to sway slightly)
#2 also rushing in: ‘Mum! Dad! We need you! Little C is hurt!’

So in all the bedlam, I go rushing out the door in my slippers, run across our garden, climb in a very ungainly fashion over the fence dividing our two houses and leg it into their kitchen. In the meantime, Hubby, who is trained in such things and is generally much more sensible in a crisis, has grabbed clean towels and some sort of sticky white masking tape and has managed to hurdle the fence and get there before me. Ominously, we both notice that their patio is covered in blood.

In next door’s kitchen, Little C is slumped in a kitchen chair, with his poor Mum (also called C, confusingly) looking completely frantic and blood EVERYWHERE. I must point out here that the man of the house, D, was away for the weekend. Ohhhhhh yes, the Texas Chainsaw Massacre has nothing on little C who is bleeding like one of those Icelandic geyser things. So, whilst C and I rush around in circles, flapping about and generally not helping much, Hubby has elevated little C’s leg, applied pressure with one of the clean towels, found a bowl (little C now feels sick) and arranged for a glass of water (I did that!) for him to sip. Calming a little now the blood flow is ebbing, I take the bull by the horns and decide to have a look so we can decide what to do next. Oohhhh dear. It’s not pretty and (look away now if you’re squeamish) I can see not much flesh and lots of uncovered kneecap. Discounting thoughts of calling an ambulance to our pretty remote houses, we decide on plan B and Hubby carries Little C to the car where he and C embark on the long drive up to the A&E in Cavan while I try to clean up then take #1, #2 and L round to ours.

Long story short, then, at about 1am they return, Little C having been anaesthetised, stitched and bandaged. Poor little L is still awake upstairs (bless her, she’s only known us two weeks!) and decides to go back home with her Mam.

‘Well’, says Hubby, crawling into bed next to me. I guess I can mark that down as an AFD then. ‘Yup’, says I, ‘although I can think of easier ways to cut down your weekly units’.

I wonder if anyone else has noticed that someone has kidnapped Bertie and replaced him with Jar Jar Binks? How did this happen? If he starts to say stuff like ‘this sun doin’ murda to mesa skin’ my worries will have been confirmed. Spooky.