Hestia's wardrobe malfunction

So, it came to pass that we went to the wedding and I told you alllllll about it.

Well, I told you all the NICE bits about it.

What I didn't tell you was that despite me standing in a doorway and looking expectantly at Tartarus for what seemed like 10 minutes, I failed to elicit a 'you look lovely, darling' or anything of that nature.

'I was waiting until you had your shoes on,' he said defensively as I contemplated flinging my antique handbag across the room at him.

OK, fair enough....I'll give him the benefit of the doubt.

However AFTER the wedding, when we were relaxing on the sofa - shoes off, ties, off, control pants removed - he raised his bleary eyes towards me and said....

'You were showing a fair bit of tit in that dress.'

Reader, I was so dumbfounded that I could think of nothing sensible to say.  Of course, my thoughts turned immediately to stabbings and wondering how much I could get for selling the Ducati without him being aware of the fact.

The frock came from Kaliko.  A brand not really reknowned for its stripper tendancies.  But let's face it, this is a man who wasn't even interested in my stripper tendancies when I had them.

Of course, the next day he denied saying it QUITE like that and was filled with remorse, apologies and pain killers.

We came home and I uploaded my photo of the three of us to facebook and m'blog.  I complained to some friends about what he had said.

The offending frock

'Hey, don't worry,' said one lovely friend.  'I'm pretty nifty with photoshop.  I've downloaded your photo and can fix it for you.'

And lo!  The photo was fixed.  And my excess tit was removed:

Hestia and the importance of grammar

Given that he is an Engineer - and a Scot - I am aware that English is not Tartarus's first language.  Or, indeed, his second.

But it came to pass that he e-mailed me to say that he was bringing home a painting of the ship.  His beloved, elderly ship, now sold to some unsuspecting Mexicans.

We have a Rogues Gallery of all the vessels that he has sailed on.  Verily, a flotilla of ship photographs in plastic frames bobs around the upstairs hall.  As close to the bathroom as I can get them.

He is very proud of his ships.  Another one to the fleet would be no hardship.

He duly arrived home and snapped open the locks on his case, handing me a small oil painting.

I'm no Brian Sewell, but I could tell that there was no trace of a bright orange-hulled ship with a helideck in it.

'I don't get it. You said you were bringing home a painting of the ship?.......'

'No - I said that I was bringing home a painting OFF the ship...' he corrects me.

And that, dearest reader, confirms that wars do, indeed, start over such trivialities as a missplaced comma.

Or in Tartarus's case, that a murder can be committed as a direct result of a missing 'f'.

Picture of a ship

Picture OFF a ship

Have you too, endured the fall-out of sloppy grammar?

Hestia and Sonshine - P1 and S1

I'm a little late, but here's m'boy starting Secondary School last Wednesday:

OK - so his trousers are a little long

It doesn't seem two minutes ago that he was doing this....

 

 

His first day at Primary School - 2005

And yes, I know his trousers need a hem up here too.

 

*wanders off to weep quietly on her bed*

 

Hestia and The Wedding

And so it came to pass that Tartarus' beautiful niece plighted her troth to her equally beautiful fiance.  Honestly, so much handsomeness and gorgeousness ought not be allowed in a single relationship.  Certainly, I didn't have my fair share of it in ours.

We got gussied up and looked like this:

Don't let that Vogue cover-girl look deceive you.

Earlier that very day, I had realised that there were no shower caps in the accommodation 

and had to improvise one.

From a Superdrug bag and two hair clips.

Sexy, don't you think?

The bride's mother, Tartarus's elder sister, entrusted him with one single task:  make sure everyone gets on the bus for 1.30pm.

He dutifully strode down the centre aisles of two coaches trying to count heads, having given up with the calling-the-register approach which was greeted with good-natured cat-calls from various be-sporraned young bucks and magnificently-hatted buckettes (buckets?) who were eager to get going to the wedding.

The spreadsheet of names that Tartarus's sister had given him was becoming very dog-eared and by the time he collapsed down next to me on the coach, he announced that we were good to go - even though he had 61 people counted and his sister's list had only 60 on it.

Well, better one too many than not enough, eh?

Oh reader....we were but 5 minutes into the journey to the venue when Tartarus noticed that there was another small spreadsheet table on his checklist.  One that had seven other names on it.

So it seemed that we were not one extra, but six short.

Tartarus began to sweat a little and I turned my face out of the window and admired the lovely gardens that we thundered past on our way to the venue.

'I can borrow a car and go back to pick them up,' he said after a bit.

'Hmmm - yes, possibly.  What time is the ceremony taking place?' I asked.

'Two-thirty,' chimed a perspiring gent in a dapper kiltie outfit in the row in front of us.

'Well,' says I, 'we've been travelling for 30 minutes and we're not at the venue.  With the best will in the world - and the best car - you are not going to make it to the accommodation and back in an hour.'

The coach rolled to a standstill in front of the venue and we poured out into the afternoon sunshine and the lawn of a very exclusive Royal Deeside wedding place.

Tartarus headed off to face the music with his sister.

And it turned out that six people had got on the rear coach after Tartarus had done his head count.

So we were actually all square.  Tartarus intercepted a waiter and gathered himself a drink.

'That was really, really worrying,' he said, mopping his brow, his hat stuffed under his arm.

I made sympathetic noises, but actually, I had found the whole thing wildly amusing as Tartarus is always the Person Who Always Gets Things Perfect and everyone else screws stuff up.  So he tells me.

The Master of Ceremonies appeared and asked us to move to the area where the wedding would take place.  Yes, with the advent of good weather, the ceremony was taking place OUTSIDE.

And she was beautiful.

He was beautiful.

Their vows were beautiful.

Look - aren't they beautiful?

I drank a MASSIVE amount of Highland Sparklers.  It was only when we were sitting down for dinner at God knows what time that I realised the interior of the venue looked like THIS:

That's twenty gazillion sets of antlers in them there rafters.

Royal Deeside is all about the hunting, shooting, fishing and bladder infections for elderly Dukes.

I had a very lovely, lovely day.  And drank rather more than I am used to.  And didn't care.

And we did not get involved in counting heads to get people onto the coaches to get them home again, let me assure you.

Toodle pip!!

Hestia and the weekly veg box - again

Those of you who have suffered read this blog for a while might remember my ongoing battle to use up everything in my weekly veg box delivery.

If you have blanked it out forgotten it, then you can catch up on it here.

for those of you who DO remember my journey into becoming a fly-breeder, hold on to the edges of your seat because I'VE SIGNED UP AGAIN!!!!

It was at the show.  I'd already had a small gin.  The food looked excellent.  What can I say? I signed up on the dotted line and I'm just back from picking up my box.

And here it is - £7.50 and it is CRAMMED with goodies!

Tadaaaah! The box!

The contents all spread out on the table

I've got:

2 small sweetheart cabbages

1 small round cabbage .....you don't need a crystal ball to know that there will be much wind over next few days

A bag of gorgeous purple potatoes

a Radiccio lettuce

an ordinary lettuce

spring onions

a Kohl Rabi?!

kerrits

mushrooms

a bendy cucumber

a bunch of herbs

broccoli

onions

and probably some other things too.....

Cannot wait to inflict cook all this for Sonshine!!!

But tell me this - what can one do with a Kohl Rabi?!

Hestia...goes on with the Show

The worst thing about Show day isn't the (usual) hideous weather.  Remember last year?

No, the worst thing is having to drink a gin and tonic at 11.15am and then saunter around the Show trying not to look a bit squiffy.

Of course, no one MADE me drink the G&T.  But when someone produces a hip flask that they've filled with gin ESPECIALLY for you, it seems churlish not to drink it.  Even when you've been fasting for a day and only had a banana for your breakfast.

Sonshine stuck to my side like glue.  Even during the G&T moment.  He looked somewhat disapproving, but I bought him a burger for his lunch, so that mollified him somewhat.  Besides, he got two cans of Dr Peppers.

So, here's the G&T

And here's the Raptors.  I cannot tell you how much I love birds of prey.  Perhaps my ongoing desire to hand-rear a crow might give you some kind of clue, but I ACHE for owls.  And when the Raptor man produced this......

I nearly SQUEEEED out loud.

As it was, Sonshine was dispatched to pick up all owl and hawk feathers for me. 

There was also this.  A European Owl.  He didn't do much.  Just sat and looked fed up.

And this.  This is a Golden Eagle.  I included the behind of the Raptor man so that you had some idea of the scale of the thing. 

And this.  Some kind of hawk.  Sunning itself to get its Vitamin D up to speed. 

And the poultry tent offered up the Biggest Bunny In The World (which Sonshine dearly loves and we go to visit every year at the show). 

And a cockeral with a rubber glove on his head.

And the next time someone tells you that you're a horse's ass, don't be upset.  Here's some fabulous horses' arses.

When Diane is not trying to beat my hair into submission at the the hairdressers, she is talcum-powdering Lady Di's feet.  Gorgeous isn't she? The horse.  Not Diane.  You can only see the back of her head in this shot.  Diane.  Not the horse.  No more gin for me today, I think.

At half twelve, I returned to the tent of the Gin and Tonic and had another one. MSP Candidate type person was there and I was moaning about the price per litre that farmers get paid for their milk.  Not being a farmer, I'm not sure how convincing I was. Especially as I was brandishing owl feathers as I spoke.

The show was fabulous.  So much better weather than last year.  In fact, someone got carted off to hospital (mercifully just across the road) with heat stroke.

I visited the hospital before going to the show, with Sonshine, to get his teeth inspected by the Dentist.  The dental nurse looked ruefully out of the window and said: 'Do you know how many times I've heard 'Donald Where's Your Trousers today?  Six times.  SIX times and it's not even 11am.'

I suspect the hospital staff will need more than the one G&T by show close today at 4pm.

Hestia lovingly tends....

So, Juno very thoughtfully sent me down some seeds from her Japanese Anenome earlier this year.  I posted some of the seeds to my Evil Twins in England.

I think that their seeds failed to germinate.

You can imagine my JOY and astonishment when one of mine DID germinate.

'My God, I might actually be able to DO this gardening thing!' thought I as the tiny green seedling pushed its way through the soil.

So I lovingly tended it and spoke words of love and encouragement into its tiny leaves.

When it got too dry in the polytunnel when we went to Blackpool in June, I was distraught and practically nursed it back from the DEAD on my return.

It is now hardening-off outside (see: coping with flood conditions) and I took a look at it the other day.

And it looks like this:

And even *I* can tell that this is not a bloody Anenome.  Japanese or even Sea.

It is, I am reliably informed ....... a weed.

*sigh*

I returned from two days of internetless joy at Juno's yesterday and felt compelled to bake Rock Cakes from Marian Keyes' book, Saved by Cake.

'Could you maybe bake these every week?' said Sonshine, stuffing some stray raisins into his mouth as we spooned the mixture into rock-shaped splodges on a baking tray.

'Maybe not every week - we'll be the size of Belgium and our pancreases (pancreasi?) will be screaming for mercy.  Maybe monthly?'

The compliments continued when the cakes emerged golden and delicious-looking from the oven.

We tucked into half a cake each as we waited for them to cool down.

'These are WAY better than my birthday cake!!!' he assured me.

Ouch.  Thanks.  But ouch.

And finally, this arose on Facebook this morning via Evil Twin Viv and constitutes my entire relationship with the plastic storage vessels in question:

Hestia & Sonshine - now we are 12

Eggy bread breakfast - hence the tomato sauce
We don't usually have tomato sauce at breakfast
*cough*

Twelve years ago this very day, Tartarus gave me a son.  And an inkjet printer.

Getting the son thing needs no explanation, but the inkjet printer was a gift in lieu of a bouquet of flowers.  Even through my drug-addled post-Caesarian haze, I realised that the box at the end of my bed didn't contain anything romantic.

But, by jingo, it lasted for YEARS!

Unlike the bouquets of flowers that my fellow new mothers received.

Practical man is Tartarus.