Wimbledon

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Now that Rafa has been knocked out, here's my hope for Wimbledon:  Murray will actually strain his back feigning the back pain that hits him whenever he misses a shot and Djokovic will knock himself out punching his chest when he makes a good shot.  The best would be if these events occurred simultaneously so that they'd both fall down and Roger Federer could come out and be given the trophy as they writhe on the ground.  Roger should be wearing the white blazer with the gold RF in which he memorably (to those of us who revel in gaffes of this sort) made his blingy entrance onto centre court a few years back. 

In the meantime, I shall join my husband watching the European Cup Final just to see Rafa in the stands supporting Spain. 

advice to people on the radio

Note to interviewees:  instead of talking about the 'incredible journey' you have been on, try the following words:  Career.  Life.  Experiences.  If you must bore us with your journey, at least vary the adjective.  How about interesting? Wonderful. Educative.  Exciting.  I don't know.  But do not tell me that starring in a tv show is the end of an incredible journey. You are not Sir Edmund Hillary.  Similarly, do not answer every question by first saying, "that's a very good question".  Politicians are prone to this time staller while they think of another question they'd rather answer.  Academics who think we are all too stupid to be talking to them in the first place are always congratulating their interviewers on the perspicacity of their questioning.  Yeah, right, Bub. Spare us the flattery.  Just answer the question.  I'll try to get my tiny brain around your answer.  And finally.  Hello NPR.  Must you make every science program sound like Sesame Street?  I don't really need Big Bird to explain genetics (even Big Bird couldn't make me understand but that's a different story).  Just say the words and I'll try to get it. 
Right.  I've got dishes to wash and beds to change.  Have I told you about how I became an innkeeper?  It's been an incredible journey.

The Day the World Ended

I was in the kitchen yesterday morning, listening to the contented chatter of  my guests  in the dining room, "where are you from?", "where are you going?" "isn't this absolutely without doubt the best bed and breakfast you've ever been to and isn't Jan beautiful?  (OK, OK.  I made that part up) when suddenly there was an eerie silence.  I hesitated to go in, fearing something other than a blueberry in the pancakes or a repetition of the day a chipmunk decided to join the throng.  Gathering my best defensive smile, I entered the room to find that the wi fi signal had disappeared leaving everyone staring at little devices in their hands, mournful  faces suddenly alone in the world with no news, no email, no directions telling them how to get out of my driveway.  Quelle horreur! I apologised , vowed immediate action, and strode to my computer and ...emailed my cousin.  He does something for a living which involves a computer.  I have no idea what it is.  But it has nothing whatever to do with repairing the things.  He is, however, always and cheerfully at my disposal to answer any question I happen to have regarding these machines simply based on our mothers having been sisters.  Anyhow, he gave me the advice he always gives me which is to unplug the offending bit, wait thirty seconds and plug it back in.  I could do this without calling him, but I never do.  I like being told.  This time, just to add a wallop to the advice, as I had been particularly whiney and pathetic about 'all these people paying good money and I promise free wi-fi, blah blah blah" he included an incantation.  I am far too genteel to repeat it here but to give the gist it went#%^@  #%^@ ety#%^# !!!  It worked.  There was  much cheering and  hooraying in the dining room before silence fell again while each caught up on the missing  15 minutes of their life outside Blue Skye Farm and  went back to showing people pictures of their cat on their telephone.

The Haircut

Thinking that I couldn't possibly make myself look any worse than the last hairdresser had managed to do, I had a go this morning myself.  Wrapped in a towel with a small Jack Russell nipping at my ankles, I confidently grabbed some hair and snipped away.  Way away.  I couldn't seem to make my two hands work in concert.  One hand held the hair while the other snipped wildly at the air.  Occasionally I would make contact and a clump would fall, greatly exciting the dog.  I decided to concentrate on the front where I could see before I moved to the great unknown at the back.  When I eventually tried the back of my head, I inflicted a rather nasty snip on my finger, two fingers actually, and had to stop.  The result is Rod Stewart circa 1983, which you might remember was not a good look even on Rod Stewart.  But I have to say, badly cut as it is, it is a great deal jazzier than the last professional mishap which made me look like a nun.  We always wondered why they wore those things on their heads until they took them off and the crummy haircuts underneath were revealed. When I went to the store this morning people smiled at me.  Smiled and pointed. 
Like Hillary Clinton.

Why does she do that?  Always with the raised eyebrows like "Hey Wow it's YOU!!  I'm SO HAPPY IT"S YOU!". Do you suppose she does that now when she gets off a plane in say, Russia? There's Putin waiting for her as she comes down the steps of the plane.  Hillary stops, raises her eyebrows, jolts her head back and points at him, "Wey hey!  it"s YOU!"   Somebody ought to tell her that her Alice in Wonderland days are over, speaking of hair.

Rats

In Rat Experiment, New Hope for Spine Injuries - NYTimes.com

I'm no fan of rodents, but this little chap really got to me.  I know, I know, countless human spinal injury victims will benefit from this but still ....
We had a rat in a dustbin once when we lived on a country lane in England.  My husband clapped a lid on the can and announced that he would 'deal with it in the morning'.  "How?" I inquired, knowing that I was dealing with a man who saves spiders from going down the plughole.  "In the time honored fashion," he said.  "I shall hit him with a shovel."  The morning dawned and I watched as my husband turned the bin over on its side with one hand while hoisting a shovel in the other.  He pulled off the lid and nothing happened.  He waited, poised to strike.  Still, nothing happened.  Then a little bewhiskered ratty nose appeared.   My husband's raised arm came down and he stood there watching as the rat, determining that the coast was clear, scuttled off into the bushes.  "What are you doing?" I shouted from the bedroom window.  "He was sniffing the morning," my husband said, as if this explained it all.