2 weeks of doing . . .

So here I am, almost 2 weeks into my holiday, in fact, this coming Monday it’s all about back to work, and what has been achieved?

Not an awful lot.

My intentions were good mind. Sew and write. Or write and sew. Either way, come today, expectations had been high. Half a novel at least, even if it’s a shitty first draft. Loads of sewing, crafty and clothes – definitely not cushions.

Tally up as of this morning:

Words written – 0

Stitches stitched – 0

Immediate response to this? Get the flipping sewing machines out and at some point hit the blog at least once before Monday

Result:

Sewing – 2 face masks – different styles. Both steam my glasses up! What the blazes? How do you get by this little snag? I also feel a little like Darth Vadar, deep breathing and muffled speech.

Writing – this blog

Evidence:

Here are my masks, made from scraps, courtesy Youtube tutorials

 

15 mins – had a thought

white bubble illustration

Driving to work this morning, navigating my way around more roundabouts than should be legally built in one city, I had a thought.

My mood lifted, my grin grew.

brown short coated dog on white background
Photo by Emily Hopper on Pexels.com

Yes. Finally. Something to blog about. Something fun. Indeed, the kick up the backside needed to sit me at the keyboard again. Quickly the entire blog was mapped out in my mind. A little humour here, a little nonsense there, a little sharing of me. Perfect in every way. What was that? Did you mention modesty?

Several roundabouts later and quickly heading into the building, my plan was to ignore my normal daily tasks and, cheekily, whack out an email to myself, of said blog, for copy and paste and publish later on. Who would question my furious taping at the keyboard? Not a sausage.

two sausages on charcoal grill
Photo by Mateusz Dach on Pexels.com

What could go wrong?

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Palm to forehead. I bloody well forgot it all. No hints, no a-ha moments. Nothing,

Note to self: Numpty!

 

 

Purpose of this blog. No purpose. Only a place to write for 15 minutes. Thank you so much for dopping by

15 mins @Waitrose with a Stormtrooper and a Gold Medal

Well who the heck would have thought it.

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thank you, image borrowed from HERE

Lockdown Shopping @Waitrose. There I was, standing in the (very, very, orderly) queue. 2 meters apart. Rather fetching shopping bags swinging sweetly from the trolley hook. No noise, no frustrations.  All fully committed to staving Covid-19, and rightly so.

Then it struck me. The nearer I got to the front of the queue, the more my heart began to race. This moment would be BIG.

And then, reaching and crossing the threshold it felt as if I’d won an Olympic Gold Medal. All that waiting, all that willing, all that orderly queuing, it had all paid off in the end. I truly knew how Usain Bolt must have felt as he belted towards and finally crossed that mystical finish line. I was in, I was shopping.

And then, who would have thought it, at every turn into orderly aisles there were folk in masks, all looking as if they were Stromtrooppers on a day off, only they’d forgotten to remove all the components of their helmets

storm

thank you, image borrowed from: HERE

Made me smile. Something that’s important when life is as it is right now. No flippancy, no mocking, just a smile that helps me get through the tough days

Thank you NHS, you are the BEST EVER

 

 

 

15 minutes – hovering above the loo seat

Photo credit: HERE Piqsels

Cutting straight to it, there is nothing that makes my skin recoil more than sitting on a wet toilet seat, at work! Or anywhere for that matter. Oh man, just gross. And exactly what happened to me this past week. Ideally not something to share, but there you go, it’s been shared.

Having wiped and gagged and vacated the cubicle, I was immediately taken back to being probably no more than a toddler or just older. Out with my Nan shopping or something, desperate for the loo – on that note, as this seems to be all about sharing, my bladder has always been about the size of a postage stamp with the loo being a close friend. So, out with my Nan, me needing a wee-stop, into the public loo we went and having surveyed the facilities and deeming them OK to use, Nan instructed me to not sit down, but rather hover over the seat.

Really! How on earth does one hover over the toilet? Levitate? Throw my legs up and have Nan hold me under the armpits while hoping of all hope the toilet is under me? However it was or happened, I don’t recall wet feet or hem of dress so one can only assume it was a successful visit.

Actually, the more I think about stupidy and the loo, I can also remember trying to hover over the loo, only as a much older person – likely a teenager. At least at that stage, there was no need for somebody to hold me under the arms to navigate position.  No, on those occasions – because as established I could never wait until reaching home – the routine was to hoick up clothing and attempt a balancing act that required pretty darn good core strength while keeping skin from the seat.

I think that’s enough about the loo for today, and indeed forever

 

 

 

15 minutes with a Pirate colleague

There’s long been a suspicion in the household of how the Hubster doesn’t really pay as much attention to me as perhaps he should do. Case in point was this past week.

“Hey, Hubster,” I said, my phone roughly three inches from his nose. “Look at this photo of where I was today.”

He’s always keen to hear about my day at work, and as that particular day had taken us to play Pirate Crazy Golf, part of a team-building/getting-to-know-you/building-relationships day with colleagues, it was sure to be a better conversation than the normal one along the lines of.

Hubster. “How was your day?”

Me. “Same old, same old. This one did this, that one did that, I got lost in the warehouse again, lunch was yet another baked potato with tuna, blah, blah, blah, I came home.”

Hubster. “Right. Coffee or tea?” – a euphemism for, well that was bloody boring, let’s move on.

So back to the phone, settled inches from his nose, displaying a superb digital image that with all likeliness will never be seen again.

“Oh,” the Hubster, says, completely genuinely, no jokes, no nothing. “He looks a bit stiff, is that one of your colleagues?”

“WHAT?” I said – phone dropped to my lap, chin on chest, eyes wider than a 10lt casserole dish. “Are you serious? How can that be a colleague?”

Take a look, let me know what you think.

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This blog has no theme other than to allow me 15 minutes to put a blog together. Thank you for visiting

15 minutes with a Nun in Newport Pagnell

nun driving

Photo borrowed from HERE

So, there I was last week. Heading home from work. Took the back route that would lead me along winding, leafy, country roads. The type that has me sucking in air as I belt around a bend only to find myself swinging the steering wheel so my tyres touch gravel, and my paintwork takes on scratches as a gigantic 4×4 – actually I think it was a mini – on that note, MINI! who are they kidding? They are beasts. Certainly a vehicle on steroids. As I was saying a 4×4, err Mini, crosses my lane.

Back to the Nun. Well before I thrashed my way through the home counties there was a need to navigate Newport Pagnell’s High Street and its several roundabouts – circles to my SA friends. I digress once more. Is there anywhere in the solar system with more roundabouts/circles than Milton Keynes and any other town/village within a 10-mile radius?  Focus, Ruth. Newport Pagnell – home of amazing Aston Martin – High Street. Right, so about halfway up the street, my lovely Google Maps announces.

“Take the first exit at the roundabout and continue straight.” Perfect.

At said roundabout/circle I pause and give way to a sparkling, clean car, driven by a Nun, who from sight I would guess be around her 134th birthday marker. Seated next to her is also an elderly lady, not quite so old – I’m guessing about 127? Or thereabouts. Said Nun with a bestie in a smart hat at her side, inches sparkling car across the roundabout, completely forgetting the need to turn the steering wheel while keeping comfortably shoed foot on the accelerator until literally the last minute when she came practically to a halt, and I swear her next move would require a 3-point-turn.

I winced, and then cheered for Nunny to keep on moving that car, and all but got out with a mind to suggesting I complete the roundabout/circle for her. Suffice to say, divine intervention, or at least a little twitch of the hands on the steering wheel, and a flick of a foot to a pedal, and she was off and away.

And there endeth my tale of a Nun in Newport Pagnell.

 

This blog has no theme and is here purely for me to type for 15 minutes on anything that catches my eye. Thank you for reading and popping by

 

 

 

15 minutes with a don’t tell the hubster and ice-cream licker

woman dropped fail failure
Photo by Gratisography on Pexels.com

 

If you know my hubster, please don’t let on I’ve purchased yet ANOTHER jacket! I hasten to add he doesn’t curtail my spending, rather it’s the number of jackets I have that will raise his right eyebrow.

But you know a girl/woman just has to have a jacket for all seasons – well that’s my defence m’lud.

OK, so this one made me want to scream EEEEEEEEEWWWWWWW!!!! Apparently, a young American woman took the lid off a tub of ice-cream – in a shop – and then put it back in the freezer for some poor person to purchase. For the love of all goodness in this world, what was she thinking? Kinda would have been nice if she’d tumbled into the freezer, feet to the sky, head amongst a mound of waffles and mixed berries.

There is video evidence of her, and you can read/see all about it HERE. And again HERE

I wonder how we will all feel about tackling an ice-cream this coming weekend then? Might be a big fat, err, PASS on that one, thank you very much

 

 

 

 

 

This blog has no theme other than to allow me 15 minutes to put a blog together. Thank you for visiting

 

15 minutes with a cheeky piece of cod

Once a decade or so the hubster shares a joke that has me a-chucklin’. This week it arrived.

Photo by Matt Hardy on Pexels.com

A lady walks to her local fish shop, approaches the counter and says, “I would like a piece of cod.”

The fishmonger smiles and says, “Sorry, madam, but we have no cod.”

The lady wastes no time in reply, “But I want a piece of cod.”

“Madam,” the fishmonger says, “We have no cod.”

This goes back and forth for quite some time until the fishmonger says, “Madam, let me spell cod for you. C O F.”

The lady is quick to reply, “there is no F in cod.”

The fishmonger smiles, “Exactly, Madam. That’s what I’ve been telling you for the last half an hour we have no F-in-Cod.”

Should you have fallen on this blog, it is purely there for me to write for 15 minutes without giving the content too much thought

15 minutes with alpha, charlie and an aubergine

brinjal

Photo credit: Mine

Unlike a lot of my graveyard shifts when I’ve been working alone, last night we were three. And my goodness what a massive difference it made, on so many levels. Laughter was surely heard from Buckinghamshire to Glasgow me thinks.

After my mispronouncing the Headcount Report which left the three of us roaring, one of my colleagues relayed the story of how her husband called his insurance company to report a chip in his windscreen. Wanting to lighten the moment he proceeded to tell his number plate using a more humourous version of the alpha, charlie phonetic alphabet.

K – for Kit-kat he said. By this time my colleague was almost controlling her laughter, and then she hit us with the classic – O for Aubergine. Well, we almost collapsed. OK, you probably had to be there to appreciate it, but say it out loud a few times and you’ll have a giggle at least. Especially when you consider he really didn’t get it that it wasn’t O for Obergine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What the heck is this blog about?

Should you have fallen onto this blog, the purpose it serves is to ignite my love of writing once more by simply typing whatever is on my mind for 15 minutes and stopping

 

 

 

 

15 minutes and some glue

When I was a little un at school the most annoying, and more so dreaded thing ever to be given to do was glue things, and perhaps that’s where my distaste for getting my fingers and hands dirty started. Anyway, glue time meant an eager teacher would bring forth a funny looking pot of glue complete with a brush that from the moment you looked at it was sticky from bristles to handle and back again, no matter how hard you tried to keep it clean.

So sticky you’d end up with fingers covered with paper that no amount of shaking and pulling would remove it, and if anything only served to move it from one hand to the other, and back again until you went half mad, had a tantrum and was told off.

Later we progressed on to a glue pot with its funny little rubber top. It had a bit of slit across the lid requiring you to push down hard to allow the glue to escape before dragging it over the paper. Evidently, my skills do not surround the glue pot of any sorts, because even with this one I always ended up in a sticky mess.

Sometimes I think about how life was simpler once upon a time and how it would be good to have some of that back.  But not if it meant going back to the darn glue pot.

glue

Photo from HERE

 

 

 

 

 

What the heck is this blog about?

Should you have fallen onto this blog, the purpose it serves is to ignite my love of writing once more by simply typing whatever is on my mind for 15 minutes and stopping