Schools are feeding silk worms and studying the renewal of nature this term.  Just in time, Daniel inherited an ant farm from a friend – we spent much of Monday afternoon trying to catch ants – the still air was pierced with delighted squeals “I got one mom”, only to be followed by disappointment when he realized he’d squashed it or rubbed its legs off trying to brush it into the container. Many ants met their ends (no pun intended) that afternoon.  I sat on the driveway with 2 leaves trying to outmaneuver the little devils, but didn’t have great luck either. One of mine drowned in a drop of water in the container (hello??), one just escaped all by himself, and I let the other 2 go in frustration; after all, two does not a colony build – especially 2 males.

So we left a jar out, on its side, with some sugar water in it, hoping that morning would bring a whole little colony for Daniel.  Not.  The dogs, probably Mac – of boundless energy and mischief, had partaken of sugar water and whatever ants we may have garnered in the night. When I opened the kitchen door, there she was grinning and bouncing and wagging her tail, as if to say “come see, come see what I did”.  I was a little put out to observe the meandering line of marching ants, trailing sugar from the bowl in the kitchen away and down and eventually out into the sunshine. Ha!  I’m not sure how I am going to solve this one, suffice to say it will involve the ants in the kitchen and sugar … possibly the gardener will be roped in … it will be a cunning plan – after all, my trustworthiness, and hero status in the eyes of my son are on the line here.

It’s funny how suddenly hearing an old song can transport us to a different time and place. A bit like childhood smells but we won’t explore that thought any further. And how our appreciation of music develops and changes. I was going to say, “matures” but let’s face it, some of us haven’t. I can clearly remember my music choices being almost exclusively the popular choice of the day – the Neil Diamond record was carefully hidden at the back of the cupboard (even today I wouldn’t easily admit to listening to him) – but then there are Michael Bolton fans ….

I can vividly remember driving around Austria, young and slim (who says alcohol is fattening?), with several beaus of varying potential awaiting my call (it’s true I tell you) and listening to “Antenna Steiermark” (radio station) who had a summer of non-stop rock’n'roll and catchy, upbeat music. The window rolled down, on my way paragliding. Let me tell you that there is a marked difference between running down a slope, and jumping off something – a bridge for instance, or swimming or meeting someone for coffee.  I had all the time in the world.

These days I find myself listening to really crap music because the lyrics are sublime. And also listening to really beautiful music but having no clue what that chap Eros Ramazotti is singing about. The name says it all, Italian crooner, good-looking, macho … yes I have spent some time studying the CD cover.

I dance to DSTV’s contemporary music channel with the kids. Sometimes we pretend we’re a band. We use tennis racquets for guitars, a hairbrush for a microphone and multi-coloured wigs and if dad is lucky we force him to sit through a show. Unrehearsed because we can’t decide on the music in advance, so inevitably no one knows the words. It must be a bit painful to be on the receiving end.

Come to think of it he never sits through more than 3 songs so I don’t feel too bad.

My friends, and cheeky acquaintances who can be bothered, moved by pity, often feel the need to slip me their “fool-proof” cake recipes (on folded small, grubby pieces of paper) casually dropped into my hand, with a whispered “try this it will work”, like a bad spy movie). They are inevitably exasperated by the results.  My oven, the blame must be laid somewhere, manages to produce baked things. I was going to say “goodies”, but obviously not, that even the dog turns his nose up at, despite my concentration in measuring out the ingredients.  We might also lay some blame on my rudimentary measuring tools – which consist of a series of cups (1 cup, ½ cup, ¾ cup – you get the idea), a fridge magnet conversion chart (ounces to grams and vice versa) and a measuring jug inherited from my dad (in pints) – the resulting mathematical mismatch is much to blame for my culinary cock-ups (no roosters involved), or rather my baking bloopers. I am fine with starters and main courses.  I cook with my fingertips (a pinch of this …) and my tongue (oooh, needs a bit of salt …), which obviously is not the best battle strategy when it comes to baking.  Some blame, in proportion to their size, may also be directed to my two happy helpers.  A large percentage of each ingredient lands on the floor, on the counter, lovingly shared with the dogs, tasted, spat out, or happily sieved into the sink.

I do my best to get out of the cake sales at school avoiding embarrassing my children with having to carry in my suspect offerings, sliding off the plate. Always the last to go on the day of the sale, at reduced rates!  But we bake at home despite my shortcomings, because the mess is fun, and pressing the flour and marg and sugar together and then eating it from under your fingernails (oh be quiet – you all do it!), and decorating the cake – watching it subside under the sheer weight of tiny multi-coloured hundreds-and-thousands, cleaning the bowl with your fingers afterwards, licking dough off your elbows – well, it’s all part of life’s journey, isn’t it?

I think Confuscius said, even the hardest journey (life – my opinion) begins with the first step.  Don’t really know what that has to do with anything, but it was in a book I was reading, and I wanted to get it down somewhere, before I forget it altogether, may as well share it.

Yes, it is entitled “the accident”, and I have tried but can’t seem to bring myself to think about the detail of my husband’s accident, 4 weeks ago today, let alone put it on paper. So much for the therapeutic benefits of writing. So we shall just put it on the back burner for a while (don’t hold your breath).

I played golf yesterday afternoon with my family. Needless to say, my son and husband took me to the cleaners. I was going to say they put me to shame, but let’s not rub it in. My son is 4 and my husband played with one hand (his left).  My daughter bowed out gracefully early on, after several swipes at the ball. The poor sod has inherited my lack of ball skills and athletic talent. I don’t know whether to warn her now that she will always be in the snail race at sports day, with the overweight people, and will inevitably be selected for tug-of-war simply because everyone will feel she is being left out. I didn’t display any of my daughter’s dignity and continued to slog away for 9 holes. With age has come a certain perseverance … gritted teeth, clenched jaw … I will not be outsmarted by a damn ball @$#%!

But the sky was blue, we saw lots of birds, and I only lost 3 balls. My husband, Graham eventually suggested teeing off from the other side of the water. In my case it was a case of “see water – must make splash”. It was instinctive, I just couldn’t fight it.

This morning I find myself miraculously free of aches and pains. I’m so proud – this MUST mean I’m fitter! But watch, tomorrow I will be unable to brush my teeth!

I decided on Sunday, in my infinite wisdom, complete with almost-perforated eardrum (there was passionate nose blowing involved, caused by regurgitation, induced by alcohol – but I’ve made the executive decision not to go into any further detail, to preserve what is left of my tattered dignity) to finally embark on my little home décor project.

I recently acquired a new bed, the last one having served for 17 years. And so I needed to purchase a headboard. I duly went to investigate prices and availability, a fruitless and frustrating exercise, and thus my little project was born.

Buying the fabric was the easy part. Many happy hours were spent at granny’s house cutting and stitching, dancing and eating, and generally making the best of a bad situation. I arrived, kids in tow, to 3 functioning sewing machines. I left with only one still working, and granny gamely trying to smile (having spent all of her Sunday supervising me) and trying to convince me that these machines are temperamental and will play up from time to time.

In approximately 7 hours, I managed to produce one cushion, and that was only with a large amount of assistance. I proudly transported the cushion home and placed it in the dining room, in full view as you come in the kitchen door. I was expecting to bask in the warm approval and approbation of my loving spouse. But still I wait. I have since moved the cushion to the bedroom, propped up on his side of the bed where it will eventually hang, directly behind his pillows. No word as yet. I suppose I should be grateful because he might have asked why there’s only one, forcing me back to granny’s to break the last lonely machine, which, let’s face it, I am going to have to do when I make the matching cushion.

Not for nothing did I opt for cookery over needlework at school.

I don’t know that the bath is the best place to think up a blog.

I am distracted by my body. Analogies involving words like “undulating” come to mind. And I would like to take a break and go to the beach next month. The two are linked for obvious reasons. Having slumbered through the winter with excessive amounts of sweetened caffeine and comfort food, disguised under shapeless sweaters and layers of warmth, less exfoliated and creamed and cared for, wrapped up in the dark of night, against any hopeful fumbling which might let in the fresh air, and studiously ignored in the nude – my body is much the worse for wear.

I go through this every year and emerge on the other side of winter hairy, dry, white and blinking against the sun. Like a mole. The thought of hitting the beach, even if it is isolated and I can push the kids in front of me like an excuse, is quite daunting. I shall go wobbling and waddling along the sand, bulging unseemingly in my old bikini, which, like my body, has seen better days, and squashing my frame into fatty folds as I bend to build sand castles. On the bright side, at least I can bend. And I have the comfort of being happily married. Or is that happily complacent?

Never mind. I have found a temporary cure to all ills of this nature – skipping. I am sure it uses up more calories than walking! With the added bonus of making me smile. I have been skipping from the office to the loo, some of which is also due to a sense of urgency – I will leave it to the last minute. It makes me smile to imagine what everyone is thinking in their offices as I skip past. By the time I am in my toilet cubicle I am giggling out loud. If other cubicles are occupied, I giggle even harder. It’s therapy for the soul and something my daughter taught me, having made me skip past all the other mothers at school, with considerably less grace than my daughter. It is humbling and enlightening at the same time.

So I shall skip to the beach, encouraging my boobs and bum to defy gravity, juddering and giggling as I go.