Home Sweet Home

...and so, having spent a week exploring out west we are now back on home turf. The car still doesn't start unless you roll it down a hill, which was great in Wales but not so much in Norfolk, and I have a mobile phone which makes me look like I've just stepped out of 'Murder She Wrote', but apart from that we had a great time.
The journey home was uneventful but tedious, especially once we hit King's Lynn. That winning combination of a dearth of decent roads and a plentiful supply of caravans conspired to make the last 40 miles slow and frustrating. I worried at one point that I might not make it back in time for the start of term, reminding me of the situation a couple of years ago when several colleagues were absent at the beginning of the Easter term due to the volcanic ash fiasco. Somehow I don't think the Head would accept the excuse that I was stuck in East Rudham behind a Ford Ka trying to tow a five berth caravan.
For Bryn and I our first priority on arrival was to find Ronnie. He seemed reasonably pleased to see us in that inimitable nonchalant feline way, but distinctly more underwhelmed by the reunion than we were. Then, after a quick check of the post to make sure there wasn't anything exciting like an inheritance from a long-lost great aunt or a flyer about a new offer at Lidl, it was time to tackle the washing. What you need to know at this point is that before we went away there was already a massive mountain of ironing sitting there staring at me. I did what was absolutely necessary for the holiday and left the rest. As the laundry fairy doesn't seem to have made an appearance this week it is, as you would expect, still sitting there. The trouble is now there are three loads of washing at various stages of dampness waiting to join that pile.

Then, about an hour ago people began to say they were hungry. I'd forgotten about the whole meal thing to be honest. I would love to say that I managed to produce a delicious pasta dish in seven minutes from scratch, or that I got a nutritious fish pie which I'd prepared last week out of the freezer and had it on the table within half an hour, along with fresh runner beans from the garden. What actually happened was that I began searching through the cupboards and fridge, desperately looking for something I could feed to my family which didn't come ready prepared with its own penicillin. I didn't have much luck to be honest. Meringue nest, kidney bean and marmite surprise anyone?

What's in a name?

Apparently the most likely names for the new Royal Baby are Alexandra for a girl, or George if it's a boy. The only reason I would be remotely interested in William and Kate's choice of name for their first-born would be if I had placed a hefty bet on it. I haven't, so I'm not.
Nevertheless, names do mean so much, don't they? I'm not sure how this works in other cultures and I would be most interested to hear from any overseas readers on this topic, but here in good old Blighty, you can definitely tell a thing or two about a chap (or chapess) from the name they have.
When we were choosing names for our first (and last) born my choice was definitely limited due to having been a teacher for so long. Every name seemed to have some sort of memory associated with it and more often than not it was a negative one. One of Geof's suggestions was 'Kyle'. Now I am really sorry but every Kyle I have taught has been trouble with a capital K. It's a name I associate with small children being yelled at in supermarkets (Lidl, not Waitrose of course). My dear husband also suggested 'Jamal', a gorgeous name I am sure, but possibly one which would result in him being stopped and interrogated at airports on a regular basis. Why not go the whole hog and christen him 'Death to the Infidel' just to be sure.
However, we both liked 'Bryn', each having separate but happy memories of holidays spent in Wales. Phew! Sorted and at only 20 weeks pregnant. Ah, but what about a middle name? I really wanted it to be 'Morgan' my mother's maiden name. At least that way I would always be able to answer the security question to reset my password. However, Geof thought that 'Bryn Morgan Harrison' sounded like an accountancy firm.  He had a point I suppose so we went for a bit of biblical with 'Reuben'.
You can have a lot of fun with names too. I'm sure you've all worked out you film star name using your middle name plus a park near to where you grew up. Mine would be 'Kathryn The Rec'. Mmmm maybe not. A recent one doing the rounds was your rock band name. For this you used the colour of your underwear plus the last food you ate. Following on from my 'Inner Baptist' post you won't believe this but mine was 'Black Quiche'!
I work in a Catholic school, and when the new pope was being elected we had a great time deciding what our 'Pope Name' would be. I know, we don't get out much. To do this we looked at the saints' names calendar, looked for our birthdays and selected a name. I went for 'Pope Casimir Humbert'.
So, names do mean quite a bit. That's why we are unlikely to ever see a 'Queen Chardonnay' in our green and pleasant land.

A nice bit of British classism

As you all know by now I have what some may consider an unhealthy obsession with the relative merits of local supermarkets. I do particularly like the posh one up the road from me and when I go there I feel all middle class and grown up as I choose between the chargrilled artichokes and the olive and manchego platter. However, on a recent visit I was left feeling quite shocked and confused after spotting a customer buying a copy of ‘The Sun’ newspaper. Now I don’t like to be judgmental but I’m going to be anyway. To explain to anyone from a different country who may be reading this, ‘The Sun’ contains pictures of scantily clad ladies, no news and could easily be accessed by someone with a reading age of 7. In a nutshell, it is not what you expect ‘Waitrose’ clientèle to be buying.

When I relayed this dismaying news to a friend, he asked if I was sure they weren’t buying  ‘The Sun’ in a kind of post-modern ironic way, a bit like people who send their children to fee-paying schools buy ‘The Guardian’. (Kerrching! I have now managed to alienate the remaining 50% of my friends, the ones who were smugly chuckling about ‘The Sun’) I assured him that this was not the case as I had overheard them talking and they didn’t even know how to pronounce ‘cous-cous’ properly. I grabbed my elderflower and raspberry terrine and practically ran out of there.
This story takes me back to the early days of my marriage. A semi-
famous soap star had died in an accident and the only paper covering in was ‘The Mirror’. I asked my husband Geof to buy a copy on his way home so I could read about it. He said he would, but that he would have to divorce me afterwards!

(Disclaimer – I love all my friends and family. I don’t care what newspaper you read, where you shop, where your kids go to school. You are all lovely, warm, caring people and that is what matters!)

Friday Night Entertainment in North Walsham

Have been so engrossed in watching the tennis that it didn't register that I hadn't seen Bryn (aged 8) for a while. I presume he is out in the garden playing football and not outside Lidl drinking WKD.