The orchid's progress

One more bud to go! This is the orchid that was brought back from the dead by repotting it and giving it some Baby Bio. I think it's saying thank-you.

(An operation to have a testicle removed is called an orchidectomy. And a man with only one ball is a 'monorchid.' What is the linguistic relationship between testicles and the beautiful orchid plant - anybody know?)

It's a boy - again!

Our friend gave birth to son number 5 this afternoon. Wonder if there is a boy's name meaning 'youngest and last'?

Quick catch-up

Over the weekend I decided to back out of buying that flat as I realised I couldn't supervise the building work from 25 miles away. I emailed both the solicitor and the estate agent and haven't heard a thing from either. I was expecting to get an angry call from the agent but... nothing. A tiny cottage has come up for sale in East Barnet, Herts, near a good friend of mine. It means a bus to the tube station again, but that seems to have become the story of my life. I hope to see it on Saturday. If I bought it, I'd have to build a very big shed in the garden.

Our friend who has four boys already, aged 11, 9, 3 and 17 months, is in hospital right now giving birth to baby no. 5. I know she's praying for a girl at last. I can't wait to hear what she's had! Talk about being on tenterhooks. I feel as if I'm on a very large, spiky porcupine! Mr Grumpy is getting the worst of it as he has been babysitting three of the boys since 6.30 this morning. Tee-hee! The two youngest adore him and cling to his legs. I think they look on him as their granddad-substitute.

I killed two birds with one stone this morning. My poor chiropractor broke two ribs before Christmas and has been out of action for several weeks. Today was her first day back, so I went and got tweaked and twisted and then, by chance, the chiropodist was free, so I zoomed in and asked her to have a look at my fungal toenail (which was amongst the ailments I listed in my very first blog entry). I had been treating it with Curanail from Boots Chemist for two years, at a cost of £24 per bottle, then I thought, 'darn this' and mentioned it to my GP and got a bottle of something called Trosyd, which I promptly spilled all over my Turkish rug!

There was a bit left, so I have been applying it twice a day, but I thought if the chiropodist could shave the nail down, the stuff could get deeper into the nail. She filed it, then filed my callus which builds up on my right foot every year so that, by sandal-wearing time, I have a week with one of those callus-removing plasters on, then she clipped all my nails and gave me a lovely foot massage with E45 cream. She said I am doing all the right things and looking after my feet very well, so I belted for the bus and practically floated up the street to home.

Now I have put on the heating, as he isn't here to tell me not to, and my next task is to see if there is anything else in my wardrobe that can be thrown out. Wish my goddaughter wasn't in Shropshire right now as she is the world's best wardrobe editor, pulling stuff out, scowling, saying how horrible it is and hurling it into a bin bag. (As soon as she's gone, I pull half of it out again, of course!)

That's it for now. Still no phone call. It can't be long now, though. After four kids already, you'd think they'd pop out like greased rugby balls! Rugby balls with arms and legs, that is. And now, before I can go on any more flights of fancy, I am off to check the web to see if anyone else has thought of a kids' book idea I had yesterday. As my fingers are already crossed, I shall now cross my toes and eyes as well. Hope I don't fall off my chair!

I'm over Eastenders!

I got hooked on the show about three years ago and though there isn't one handsome man or genuinely nice person in it, the amount of melodrama and murder kept me watching. But not any more. The latest plot twist involving the baby switch is just too horrid and too much.

It makes me think that the scriptwriters get together and, amidst goulish laughs, see who can come up with the most outrageous plot lines, with no regard whatsoever for the characters, or the feelings of the viewing audience. I find myself feeling sorry for the actors who have these storylines thrust upon them. How often, I wonder, do they cringe, or think, 'that's just not fair!' Yet, if they want to go on in the show and get paid their regular fee, there's sod all they can do about it.

It wasn't that long ago that poor Ronnie was reunited with the daughter she had as a teenager and was told by her wicked dad was dead, only to see her mown down by a car in front of her eyes. A few months later, she had a miscarriage, then at last got pregnant again, married Jack, with whom she'd been in love for years (the most wooden actor I have ever seen; who, when paralysed after being shot in the head looked no different from when he was normal), and finally had a baby at the same time as Cat had hers.

The lousy scriptwriters then decided that Ronnie's baby had to die. Not only that, but, while she was temporarily demented, and Cat was rushed to hospital with near-fatal bleeding, and Alfie, Cat's hubby was pissing it up in the pub, Ronnie took Cat's baby that was lying unattended in a room in the pub and left her own dead newborn son in its place.

For a short while, she pretended Cat's baby was hers, but then reason returned and she went to take it back, only to be stopped in her tracks by Jack, in one of the most contrived moments in a show chock-full of them. Jack thinks the baby is his and Ronnie is unable to take it back, so poor Cat and Alfie think their baby is dead.

I couldn't bear to watch last night's episode - especially as our friend down the road has gone into labour today. I hate the writers for using poor Ronnie, who was abused by her dad, who later left his millions to her spendthrift, featherbrained, bling-queen sister, Roxy, as their eternal punchbag. For once, I should like to have seen something go well for Ronnie in a series that specialises in having unlikeable characters commit ghastly crimes and get away with them.

So that's it. I'm not watching any more and it won't matter if Eastenders characters are wearing my clothes. (Mind you, that lilac top has still gone into the charity shop bag!)

Morning sky

It was such a change to see some blue sky this morning, after days of grey, that I rushed for the camera at 8.30 am and took this. It's a real tonic and, after says of gloom, both natural and emotional, I feel uplifted and optimistic again.

Vanishing posts

I deleted yesterday's posts because I had said too much and didn't want to upset Mr G. He is very kind and generous in many ways, and if he's a grouch, and odd in various ways, I must never forget that he has sustained brain damage from his brain haemorrhage and strokes. When they scanned his brain, there were large dead areas. Heaven only knows how he operates and passes for normal. I haven't had any brain damage and I have difficulty passing for normal half the time!

Was eating a mince pie earlier and a big chunk of tooth fell onto my plate. Not quite sure where from, but I shall be on the phone to the dentist on Tuesday. One poor friend of mine spent the whole of Christmas with raging toothache from an abscess. My very worst nightmare. It's nearly two years since I had one and the tooth has never been the same. There is a small pocket of infection still in it somewhere and, as the dentist told me, it will either cure itself, or the tooth will have to come out.

I've said this before (see the poem I wrote on the subject, which is in my blog a couple of years back), and I'll say it again: human teeth are a design fault. Mind you, I shouldn't like to be a crocodile with toothache!

Eastenders stole my clothes again!

In the past, Zainab, Jane and Jean have appeared in Eastenders wearing clothes that I wear regularly. Now, they are all passably young and attractive, but now - oh woe! - I have just spotted Big Mo in this mauve tunic of mine. Having seen her in it, I now realise that I Am Too Young To Wear Mauve. Or is it lavender, or even lilac? Into the charity shop bag with it. There's nothing like a good clothes clear-out to start a new year.