Laura’s Life

My parents came to visit last Sunday.  They brought my sister, Leanne, with them and also my cousin Kim’s son, David, who is visiting from Australia.  It was a cold but dry, bright day so we decided to head out to Crinan to show David something of this area.

We then decided to take David to a section of Kilmartin Glen, so that he could see something of the neolithic sites to be found in Argyll.  The boys had fun playing inside the burial cairns:

Chris, the boys and I wish you all Happy Holidays and Best Wishes for 2010!

Like the subject line suggests, here are some short bursts of video footage taken during the lantern parade, fireworks display and the walk home:

Mummy and Arlo:

What, pray tell, is the point in wrapping a baby up all snuggly and warm if he just sloughs off his socks and then shoves his nudy foot out from his snugglebag?

Some photos from the nursery run:

Evan was transfixed by this dog driving the van:

Orin, Evan and Arlo watching a DVD in my bed:

We had a different kind of school run last week because, with us all having rotten colds, I decided to take the car.

Orin, therefore, was looking like the cat that caught the cream because he did not have to walk at all:

Evan made us listen to ‘Bonkers’ by Dizzee Rascal five zillion times per trip:

And somehow we still managed to find caterpillars to rescue:

I love Eurovision.  Once a year it is fantastic to revel in so much cheese and kitsch.  It might be tat but it is terrific tat.  This year’s extravaganza – held in Belgrade, Serbia – was no exception.    

It opened with last year’s winner: a butch woman in an ill-fitting masculine suit backed by a troupe of Victor/Victoria dancers.  I had managed to forget how appallingly awful the winning song from last year had been.  Junk like this winning is, of course, a direct consequence of political block voting.  What we want and expect from Eurovision is poppy, colourful kitsch with a smattering of zithers and balalaikas where appropriate not “artistes” devoid of talent who take themselves too seriously.  

The host and hostess of the evening were then introduced.  As is the tradition, these are always a gormless pair of minor celebrities from the host nation who deliver meaningless commentary and quips throughout the contest.  “Tonight Belgrade is the capital of the world” was just one twaddle utterance of the night.  The woman was as glamorous as required – with five costume changes no less – and, as is traditional, she had a flirtatious repartee with her slightly camp, subtly quirky looking male co-host.  The whole show takes twice as long as necessary, of course, because of the insistence on saying every word in both English and French when what they say is drivel in any language.  At least the main presenters were more intelligible than the pair broadcasting from the “Green Room”.  They did not even seem to understand each other.  

And then there are the odd introductory films.  I recall when these used to function as tourist information advertisements, showing snippets of the host nation’s cultural heritage, historic sites, landmarks and landscapes; in recent years they have become increasingly obscure, their relevance to anything difficult to determine.  In this case, some random Serbians were shown mucking about with paint that happened to be in the colours of the flag of the country being introduced.  Since European flags have a limited palette it was almost impossible to guess who was being introduced and even more difficult to care less.  

Romania was first off the blocks.  Now is it just me or do you expect a bit of drama and spectacle from a country with the history Romania possesses?  As well as vampires, we could have been treated to howling werewolves and toothless gypsy soothsayers as backing singers but, alas, what we were treated to as a boringly soporific easy-listening effort.  

Next up was the United Kingdom.  The UK used to take Eurovision fairly seriously.  They still produced cheesy, winceable pop but someone was at least making an effort.  In recent years, the UK contenders have just been ridiculous.  Eurovision ought not to be taken too seriously, of course, but there is no point in even participating if the results are going to be shambolic.  As Daedalus instructed Icarus, there is a safe middle course to be steered.  Thankfully the UK entry was not the total embarrassment it could have been.  It was up tempo and Andy Abraham can hold a tune, though his voice lacks character and the song lacked a hook.  The UK never stand a chance of winning, of course, because of the block voting but they get to be in the final every year anyway because of financial contributions.  So like a naughty toddler who is never disciplines, the UK apparently never learns to improve its form.  Terry Wogan commentated that it was our best entry for years and I had to concur.  However, in recent years we have had to endure ridicule because of proffering a set of pantomime air stewards, a tone deaf duo and a middle-aged bloke singing about school.  

Albania’s offering was a pretty girl emoting about something or other that entirely failed to engage my interest.  It was dull.  The same could certainly not be said of the German entry, which was engaging but in a rubbernecking sort of way: four “Disco Divas” in bat wing costumes and 1970s hair which did not related to the song and who could not find a tune between them.    

Finally with Armenia there was a bit of a cultural vibe with the dulcet wails of an instrument Terry Wogan referred to as a “nose flute” and an ethnic stringed instrument.  The effect was ruined by the lyrics being delivered almost entirely in English but at least the singer’s hip swaying and belly jiggling made it more watchable.  

And then Bosnia Herzegovina introduced some eccentricity to the proceedings: a man dressed as some kind of eedjit schoolboy clown serenading a frightwigged woman dressed as a 1950s dolly and four ugly bridezillas as backing singers.  The song was just randomly bonkers but this was actually the spirit of Eurovision at last: joyously kitsch and cringeworthy with a sprinkling of catchiness.  At least they dared to be different.   

Israel is always controversial simply because Israel is not part of Europe.  Not even in the way that some of the former Soviet countries or Turkey are not in Europe.  Not even on the same land mass let alone continent.  But Israel can at least be relied upon to do something interesting for good or for ill.  So I was disappointed in the blandness of this year’s entry: a shirtless, waistcoat-clad bloke named Boaz with a wispy singing voice.  Hebrew is a euphonous language to listen to so it was pleasant enough in some ways but Boaz’s voice was strained and he lost the tuning at significant junctures.                         

Finland always offer up some kind of rock group and this year was no exception.  Having won with Lordi a few year’s back I guess they feel they are on to a winning formula and might as well keep churning it out.  Ireland did this same trick for years, the same old warbling ballad schtick, until they became exhausted by organising the competition year on year so began to deliberately throw the contest.  They are not even subtle about doing so any longer: this year’s effort was Dustin the puppet turkey who strangely enough never made it past the semi-final.  

The Croatian entry was quite peculiar but immensely fun.  They were a duo of middle aged men, one of whom was named 25 Cents.  They were hugely entertaining.  The older of the two used a gramophone to DJ and they played a set of water-filled bottles, which is genius in its uniqueness.  

I was blinded by the teeth of the Polish entry.  My retinas were seared every time she opened her mouth, which in a singing competition was unfortunately frequent.  Chris was more stunned by her incredibly squeezed cleavage.  It was just a pity that her singing was not as captivating as her physical attributes.  

We all know that Icelandic people are wacky.  Bjork and the kids’ TV show ‘Lazy Town’ offer ample evidence of that plus one of the most memorable Eurovision entries of recent years was an Icelandic goth gyrating in tight PVC.  I, therefore, expected something outlandish and spectacularly ridiculous.  What I received was a boring disco ballad.  When even the eccentric people of Iceland cannot muster any effort you know that Eurovision is on the brink of disaster.  

Turkey’s entry was a group playing actual musical instruments to belt out a song that was very much akin to teen angst rock.  In the context of Eurovision it was really a rather decent song, not what I would choose to listen to but far surpassing the rest of the efforts.  Chris and I certainly thought it was the entry that deserved to win.  

Portugal’s entry was a plump woman in a floor length smock – looking a little like a female Demis Roussos – wearing so much kohl she looked like a hippy panda.  

The Latvian group were all dressed as pirates.  If pirates were all gay stereotypes.  It was like “The Village People do The Pirates of Penzance”.  They were all also rather fond of the sun bed so looked pretty much like jaffa oranges in fancy dress.  It was like a song and dance number from a pantomime and I could not help but snicker at the lyric “Jolly Rogers”.  It may have been hysterical but it was rubbish.  Thar it blows!  

Sweden attempted the same approach as Armenia: get a scantily clad woman in and that’ll have the blokes dialling in to vote.  The singer was a cat-eyed woman in a very twinkly dress shouting a clubby song.  Essentially her slinkiness was all she had to rest her chances of winning on.  

It has always rankled with me when countries whose first language is not English choose to sing in English.  Surely part of the purpose of Eurovision is to share cultures and language is a significant element in any nation’s culture.  However, because most countries speak English as their second language the lazy option is to sing in English so that everyone understands the lyrics.  Personally I believe that this is a huge mistake.  The ability to have the listening public assume that the lyrics are far more meaningful and poetic than they are is entirely lost when a song is delivered in English.  Surely it is far better to retain the mystique and illusion of quality songwriting.  The Danish entry was a case in point.  An infant could have cobbled together the monosyllabic words, obvious rhymes and endless repetition.  

The Georgian entry was the type of thing I would have expected of Iceland.  They had a bejewelled goth woman backed by a pair of albino Edward Scissorhands doing robotic dance moves.  The spectacle arose from the fact that in a brief puff of smoke the costumes were magically transformed from black to white, echoing the song’s chorus of “Peace will come”.  The song was still tripe but at least the stagecraft was stonking.  

Ukraine won Eurovision a few years with a nubile woman stomping around in nothing but a fur bikini so they repeated this winning formula.  Minus the furriness.  This year they were represented by a tangerine sexpot in a barely-there crystal covered dress – not unlike the Swede’s dress actually which may have caused embarrassment backstage.  

The French entry almost defies description.  The performance opened with some female backing singers wearing the worst false beards.  Then a man arrived on stage driving a golf buggy.  He was a skinny, scruffy, contorted chap who could best be described as “Jarvis Cocker – The Hermit Years”.  I am pretty sure the French have rules about the number of songs sung in English that they allow on the airwaves which would pretty much make it illegal to sing a Eurovision entry in English.  But it was in English.  Perhaps the Hermit was getting away with it because he was not singing so much as breathing the lyrics.  I suspect the French had modelled their entry on Serge Gainsbourg, which is an oddity in itself as it meant they were being wilfully eccentric instead of being genuine wingnuts.  Quite peculiar.  

This was Azerbaijan’s first ever entry.  It was a man singing in shrieking falsetto while dressed as an angel accompanied by another bloke dressed as a goth rocker.  Spot the theme.  It was interesting in that compulsive “watch between fingers” way.  As with the Georgian entry, there was a bit of stage jiggery-pokery going on.  The goth chap poured red liquid onto a dancing girl and suddenly he was in a white suit.  Ah the purifying benefits of blood.  After all that effort was put into the performance it was somewhat of a shame that the song itself was a soundtrack to a migraine.  

I was baffled by the Greek entry.  Their contender was a woman being saucy in a pink dress, an act clearly modelled on Britney Spears, which is peculiar in the first place since that way train wreck plainly lies.  She skipped along while trying to be seductive and shouting out some rubbish ditty with a random zither interlude while trying to be all pouty.  It would not even blip on my radar of possible high scorers and yet I was confounded come results time when it ended up scoring so highly.  Apparently knock-off fallen pop princesses are all the rage in Europe.  

Spain had gone for the comedic approach.  At least I assume that was what they were aiming for because it was certainly what they achieved.  The singer was a middle aged man in a childrens entertainer style costume topped with an exaggerated Elvis quiff.  He was supported by a troupe of dancing girls who looked like cheap transvestites and whose moves were so out of synch that it had to be purposeful.  The chorus was simply a repetition of the words “chiki chiki”.  I could not take my eyes from the screen.  This was car crash telly at its finest.  Bizarrely, portions of the audience were booing at the end.  You cannot boo a Eurovision song!  Chris thought that perhaps the singer had offended some people’s religious sensibilities because he had adopted a crucifixion pose momentarily during the song.  It was quite an odd moment for Eurovision.  

The Serbian entry sucked the life essence out of me.  The group members were all wearing shades of grey while delivering the dullest of dirges and looking mopey.  Eurovision should be uplifting and energising in some way in my opinion and not make you feel depressed and listless.  

Russia’s singer was a tone deaf young man wearing white jeans and bare feet.  The latter became quite impressive when he stood on a micro ice rink while a camp skater with a huge schnozzle whizzed around.  I imagined cold sliced feet.  Even the proportions of the skater’s facial features and his mad twirling could not distract from the direness of the performance, however.  As with Greece, I was a stunned mullet when all the big points kept getting shoved in Russia’s direction.  

The performances concluded with Norway.  Again, it was regrettable that they had opted to have it sung in English.  One of the lyrics was “can catch you off guard like bad crimes” – what does that simile even mean?  What made the piffle lyrics even more unfortunate was that the woman had a pretty decent voice and the music had a Mark Ronson vibe to its production and that made it reasonably catchy in a soulful Motown way.  But those lyrics were astoundingly bad.  

Our family tradition is to score each country for costume (out of five), performance (out of five) and song (out of ten) and then see how our assessment compares to that of the actual results.  Our overall top five was: Turkey, Croatia, Bosnia, Norway and the UK.  Our top five based just on song points was: Turkey, Croatia, Norway, Bosnia and the UK.  I suspect the UK featured highly on our list not because of patriotism or musical taste but because we were shocked that our island had actually bothered to put something approaching listenable into the competition.  

Of course our system for allocating points is simple and straightforward.  Not the actual Eurovision system, which is an arduous slog through predictably politicised voting.  With an obscure basketball interlude.  The period during which votes could be cast then concluded with a set by a “wedding and funeral” band.  It made me grateful I had never had the misfortune to attend either a wedding or a funeral in Serbia.  The brass oompah noises and the atonal warbling went on for an eon.  I have never been so grateful to be able to fast forward using Sky+.  When the scores were delivered there were very few surprises.  The votes from so many nations were so transparently corrupt.  It was not about music at all but was all about nepotism and enmity.  Even San Marino got to vote and they are a principality rather than a country.  I am now hanging out for the future Vatican City entry.    

There was a concatenation of excruciatingly bizarre presenters delivering results from all the countries involved, including those knocked out in preliminary rounds of the competition.  The most cringeworthy moment by far, however, was the fresh-faced Swedish man who froze, stuttered and awkwardly spluttered out his nation’s points.  The most bizarrely dressed was a Russian woman sporting pigtails, a trilby and a pinned lace collar.  Many of the presenters seemed totally pickled.  As a consequence of block voting and political allegiances, the actual top five was Russia followed by Ukraine, Greece, Armenia and Norway.  Except that it used to control much of Eastern Europe, there was no reason fathomable why that Russian entry would win.  The ice skater took all the credit for their success and was none too magnanimous in his acceptance speech: “Because of you and thanks to us we won.”  

Terry Wogan was absolutely right when he signed off with, “Hello Moscow; Goodbye Western Europe”.  

But I am still a Eurovision addict and I will still tune in next year!

I am so livid right now I hardly know where to begin this particular tale of woe.

We have an “integrated community care centre” which means the family doctors surgery operates out of the hospital alongside the dental practice (well bits of it) and the social work department.  In theory this is supposed to make things more efficient and effective.  Hmmm.

Each Wednesday afternoon between 2 and 4 there is a Child Health Clinic which operates on a drop in basis.  You turn up, someone adds your child’s name to a list and that determines the order in which each young patient is seen.  Should work like a charm, right?

Well this afternoon Evan had to go to the clinic for his MMR and another jab.  So I was not just going along on a drop in basis - we were invited to attend.  So I drive on up to the hospital and tumble through the door at 1.45pm with my three bundles of joy to see notices everywhere declaring the surgery to be closed for the day.  Seriously?  Aidan and Orin immediately scuttled off to play with the one toy in the building, a bead frame, while I tried to find someone, anyone, who could tell me if the clinic was still running or not.  Bare in mind that the hospital itself was still open to visitors yet there was no one manning reception whatsoever.  After ten minutes a woman appeared from a back office and told me she thought the clinic was still running.  So I took a seat.

Another ten minutes pass.  No signs of life.  Playing “eye spy” can only keep three pre-school boys entertained for so long.  We were down to spottind details on magazine covers and pamphlets twenty minutes into that game.  The boys began to get squirmy and Evan (who normally has an afternoon nap) was getting very gurny.  I could feel this burning pit of magma beginning to bubble in my abdomen.

 There were about half a dozen parents by the time I had been seated for half an hour and that was when the Health Visitor finally appeared to take the first small patient.  I had been there fifteen minutes before the clinic opens, let us not forget, yet up leaps this woman with a toddler daughter who had only just arrived and snaggles the first place.  Steam was coming out of my ears and veins were popping in my neck.

First appointment done, the Health Visitor reappears to take in the next patient.  Should have been me, right?  But at that precise moment I was kneeling on the floor beside Aidan and Orin who had decided to wrestle on the carpet, whispering threats and bribes at them to enourage them to sit on seats like civilized human beings.  All in vain.  Eventually when I had confiscated each and every toy in the house with the exception of some wooden bricks and a box of rubber insects they got back up on the seats.  Then Evan promptly fell fast asleep.

Lava was issuing forth from me by this juncture.

 A full hour after the clinic had opened - so an hour and fifteen minutes after my arrival - the Health Visitor reappeared and I quickly leapt to my feet dragging the boys behind me.  Aidan and Orin did their best show of being all sweetness and light by holding  each other’s hands and skipping as we were led along the corridor.  I knew they were doing it just to wind me up still further.  They are never satisfied at that hospital until they have turned me into a human Vesuvius.

So poor wee Evan is fast asleep in my arms when he is suddenly, rudely and painfully awoken by a woman jabbing not one but two needles into each of his chubby wee thighs.  Orin and Aidan meanwhile managed to mangle a banana shaped keyring that was dangling from the vaccination fridge.  So I had to discipline my children in front of two health professionals while my baby was sitting on my knee howling like an inconsolable banshee.  The idea of dropping them off with the social work department was getting very tempting as I was transforming into a  scarlet version of the Incredible Hulk.

Mercifully that was almost the end of the ordeal and as I marched my rambunctious and rebellious trio back to the car park I was sure to whip a complaints form from the reception desk.

Who knew a trip to the hospital could give you high blood pressure!

I am now suddenly much more inspired by this whole blogging thing simply because I have a new theme.  Somehow that spartan white and blue layout just wasn’t doing it for me whereas having a design that is more in keeping with me makes this feel that bit more personal.  So big thanks to Eli for uploading the theme for me because I would have been a clueless muppet otherwise.

And on the subject of muppets, my new blog theme is PINK!  What does that have to do with muppets?  Miss Piggy, of course.  Miss Piggy has always been an icon for me (truly, I am not just trying to be amusing) and I think she and I have a lot in common.  When I was growing up, the one thing that set the divine porcine diva and myself apart was her love of all things pink.  Pink was never my thing.  My sisters are very girly and pink but I never was.

Until recently.

This blog is, let’s face it, primarily going to concern itself with the goings on of my three wee boys.  And they are very much boy boys.  I share a house with four males.  There is far too much XY guff going on in this household and at times I feel myself drowning in a sea of testosterone.  But it is precisely because I live in such a household and precisely because my life (like this blog is going to be) is dominated by the three wee chaps in my life that I have becoming increasingly more pink over the years.  And that is why I selected a pink theme from all those available to me.  For a brief moment, I almost picked something blue.  But the same sense of XX defiance that led me to have a mauve chandalier in the downstairs loo and which compels me to try and convince my husband to paint the bathroom hot pink led me to click on the pink options.  Would Miss Piggy allow Kermit to make all the design decisions I ask you?  Nope!  Not a chance.

So this is an XX blog from an XY world.  I think Miss Piggy would be proud of me.

This is my first ever blog!

 Anyone who knows me knows that I am not all that techno savvy.  Yes, I like to use the computer for what it allows me to do but my knowledge of how to make the thing work for me is limited to pleas of “Chris!  Help!” more often than not.  I did not, after all, even have any contact with a proper computer until I was 14.  Then, when I was 17 and new at University, I managed to make all of the computers in the Law department crash just by glancing at them.  I have the “evil eye” when it comes to computers (and plants).

But I need a way of communicating what my wee family is up to to a wider audience of family and friends, since I am sure they must be tiring of me cluttering and crashing their inboxes with endless photo-filled e-mails.  Maybe, just maybe, therefore, a blog is the way to go.  MySpace, Facebook, Bebo … none of those tools appeal to me.  I am too much of a control freak for that.  So blog it is.

 Maybe this first entry will be the first of many.

Unless I crash the system with my “evil eye”.