Here Comes the Sun

In the midst of a recession there is always one thing that is guaranteed to either add to the misery or uplift even the grumpiest of moods - the good old British weather.
However, the trouble with a little bit of sunshine and temperatures which creep marginally beyond freezing point is the amount of bare flesh we are suddenly and often unwillingly subjected to. Now there may be some who do not mind this phenomenon, or worse, perhaps even welcome this unveiling of white, lumpy, pasty flesh, but personally speaking, it offends me to see my own white, lumpy, pasty flesh on a daily basis, so why on earth should I want to see anybody else's wobbly bits trying to make an escape for freedom?
Worse still, in the desperate attempt to absorb the watery rays of sunshine, watching the white dumpling-like offerings become incandescent, angry red dumpling-like offerings is even more repulsive. Now, had I the toned, lithe, golden body of my dreams, perhaps we'd be taking a different approach here? Maybe I too would be willing to get 'em out - I'm talking about legs here, what did you think I meant?
If we lived in a much promised but failing miserably to materialise, globally-warmed, sunny Mediterranean climate perhaps it would be another story altogether? But we don't.
If and when Cromer Pier becomes known as Cromer-Sur-Mer, playground for the rich and famous, and the Promenade a palm tree/ seafood restaurant/ open air bar-lined boulevard, then and only then will I whip off my Khaftan and Flip Flops in public.
You have been warned.

Revenge is a Dish best served cold, Mr Blumenthal

It is not sour grapes. Just because he happened to be on the selection committee who rejected, yes REJECTED my Hot Smoked Salmon and Cream Cheese offering for the new Walkers Crisp flavour, is nothing to do with my less than sympathetic feelings towards Heston Blumenthal and his Fat Duck mystery lurgy crisis. Not really.
But if I was the malicious type, you might wonder if I was the sort of person who would think, "Serves you bloody right for choosing cajun bloody squirrel in the first place".
Of course, I'm NOT that type of person at all.
Poor Heston, I am sorry for you, I really am - and folks ...... I mean that most sincerely.

A New Year's Revolution

I have just made my New Year's resolution - I would have made more but we're in a recession don't ya know, so I thought I'd better cut back.
So here it is - my resolution.
To only make friends with people poorer or fatter than me.
I completely understand how shallow this may sound, but when you think about it, it makes a lot of sense. By this simple act, my self esteem will soar. And with greater self esteem comes greater confidence. With greater confidence, I will be more eager and receptive to embracing new opportunities. And hopefully, with these new opportunities will come the wealth and pert buttocks I failed to achieve last year (or ever).
And then, being so utterly contented, I will share my happiness and help my poor, fat friends get rich and skinny too. A win, win situation, don't you agree?
I think I may have just started something - but you don't have to thank me. Just pay me.

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Happy Hallowistmas)

What? Has the computer gone funny? Alas, no. Confused and bewildered?
You and my son both. Once again it is THAT time of year, when with unscrupulous determination and skill, the shops and supermarkets begin their dirty tricks campaign, desperate to unburden us of our hard-earned pennies one way or another.
I warn you now, you parents of those too young to be seduced by shop windows laden with plastic broomsticks and flashing pumpkins, fake christmas trees and 'Santa Stop Here' signs.
Your time will come, so prepare yourself now.
Why, in September, when innocently popping into the supermarket for a cooked chicken and a bag of mixed lettuce, should we want to see vampire costumes snuggled upon the shelves next to mince pies and tinsel? Try explaining to a four year old that it will not be Halloween tomorrow, nor even the day after, and that Father Christmas is not loading up his sleigh as we speak.
It makes me grumpy, and yes, I will confess, slightly panic-stricken.
Logically I know that there will not be an unexpected pumpkin shortage, but deep, deep down, like a grumbling appendix nestles the nagging fear of failure. For as a Mother, it is my duty to ensure that the 31st October will not be the anticlimactic non-event of my own dusty and distant childhood, when the most I had to look forward to on Halloween would be the 'Blue Peter Special', in which I could be inspired by demonstrations of 'How to create a witch's hat and a broomstick out of a washing-up liquid bottle, the inside of a toilet roll and some double-sided sticky tape'. Ah, the pressure, the pressure - our parents had it easy, didn't they?
Other than Christmas and birthdays, all they were obliged to provide was an egg at Easter, and a sparkler or two on Bonfire night. We, on the other hand, have created a ridiculously high standard which we struggle to sustain. Was my Mum a bad parent for not taking me Trick or Treating? Of course, it didn't actually exist then - not in Essex anyway, but even if it had, I expect she would have had more sense than to encourage her child to wander the streets on a dark winter's night, knocking on the doors of strangers, demanding free sweets.
More sense than me anyway.
Yes, I have finally given in to all the pleading, the whining and the emotional blackmail (pleeeease, ALL my friends are going........). So if you happen to see a pathetic, embarrassed, premenstrual-looking 41 year old on your doorstep Friday week, have pity. And give me chocolate. Lots of chocolate.
Happy Halloween! Roll on Christmas?!

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (It's A Wonderful Life)

It occurs to me that from this financial meltdown, this CREDIT CRUNCH, good may come in surprising ways. Bear with me, I am not totally mad, just verging on the marginally insane - I am a Libran after all. It is in my nature to keep my options open.
Having lived with the uncomfortable thought that in the next ten years or so, more people will be suffering with, or kicking the bucket from obesity-related illnesses, perhaps this Credit Crunch will make many of us have to rethink how and what we eat.
Perhaps when we can no longer afford to indulge in regular chip/chinese/curry/pizza/fried chicken takeaway fests we will start to realise what we have been missing - a rib cage for one thing, and pert buttocks for another.
For me personally, having to 'tighten my belt', has in fact meant I really can now tighten my belt.
So on a brighter note - I may be poor, the job centre may be beckoning, but my surgically attached jeans are now loose, verging on the baggy, and so, I must admit, just like one of my favourite films ever, "It's a wonderful life".

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Happy as a Dead Cat)

I once read a book called 'Happy as a Dead Cat'. It was very funny and made me laugh.
I once had a cat who died last week. It was not very funny and made me cry.

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (An Oxymoron - The Joys of Parenthood)

Ah, the joys of Parenthood – the worry, the sleepless nights.
From the day they arrive into the world, it is the sleepless nights which are the horribly recurring feature of those early weeks and sometimes months. Exhausting and unexpected, no matter how prepared you think you may be. Tell your friends you are with ‘Bun in the Oven’, and predictably at least half will alert you to the fact that you’ll never have a good night’s sleep again. Ignore them at your peril, it’s absolutely true.
I don’t just mean the nights of feeds and nappies and wind, of pacing the house and even the streets – no, I am talking about the nights of fitful sleep or none at all when you lay in bed simply worrying about the things you can no longer control.
Snip, snip go the apron strings, and so the gut-wrenching anxiety begins; when they take their first steps into the school playground, when you are no longer there to hold their hands to keep them safe, or mop away the tears when knees get grazed – Ah, the joys of Parenthood.
Having gone through it twice with my twelve year-old, from the first day of Primary school to the first day of Senior school, you’d think I’d be getting the hang of it all by now, wouldn’t you?
Funny thing is, today was my youngest son’s last day of nursery, and come September, I don’t imagine that sending him off in the world will be any easier than on previous occasions but at least this time I know for sure I will be better prepared with a family sized box of Kleenex to wipe that snotty, tear-stained face – after all, at my age it’s starting to become embarrassing.