posted
By 'pet hawk' do you mean pet as in pet or as in lives in the barn near our house, and by hawk do you mean enormous big eagle?
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Lovely image, though, of Saltdaughter. We've received masses of knitted stuff already. These old ladies must, like, do it in their sleep, yes?
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quote:Originally posted by saltrock: Poor Ellie thought she was actually a lamb for the first 3 years of her life. Took me ages to get her to talk instead of baa.
Was trying to persuade my 3-year-old to finish a piece of cheese the other day so I said, "Why don't you pretend to be a mouse? They like cheese." He then spent the next three days doing such a convincing impersonation of a mouse that I was thinking of setting some traps at one stage. He did the squeaking, naturally enough, but also the nose twitching and nibbling, the scurrying quickly from one hiding place to another, and he made himself a tail from a bit of cloth. All for a bit of cheese. You have to be so careful with children. I bet Jamie Oliver doesn't have to put up with this sort of thing.
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posted
Actually, mice hate cheese as a rule... The only reason they go for it at traps is cuz they are curious...
Peanut butter and/or chocolate are their personal favs though...
-------------------- Evil isn't what you've done, it's feeling bad about it afterwards... Yield to temptation. It may not pass your way again. Posts: 3793
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posted
I couldn't sleep in a room that had a mouse in it. I used to live in a mobile home on a farm, [just for a couple of months you understand, whilst "between houses"] and I had mice all over the bloody place. I used to stay awake reading until about 4 am every single morning just so that I would fall straight to sleep and not lie there listening for mouse noises or imagining that I could feel them crawling across the bed. I ended up buying a sleeping bag so that I could be sure that they wouldn't be able to get to me via the feet end at least. I was in a right state by the end of my stay there. Ok, so I am the biggest wuss that ever walked the planet, but there's no way I could co-habit with rodents ever again.
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quote:Originally posted by Abby: By 'pet hawk' do you mean pet as in pet or as in lives in the barn near our house, and by hawk do you mean enormous big eagle?
pet as in lives in it's own small building not to far from the house and yes hawk as in a red tail hawk - large bird.
don't worry though. she wears leather wrist gaurds and it has a hood. it's only tried to bite her once or twice.
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posted
My uncle loves country music. He got it from my grandfather, who used to play the harmonica in a miners band. They weren't hugely popular, but they had some local celebrity, and played the working men's clubs that were scattered around the bases of the mountains. They were called "The Minerva Cowboys" (after the largest mountain in the region), and they practised in a garage near the council estate where my mum, auntie and uncle grew up.
My mum and her sister were older than their brother by a few years, and they never seemed to pay attention to the Minerva Cowboys, preferring to spend their time instead with romances and helping my grandmother with her seamstress job.
My uncle, Alan, used to go down with other kids from the estate and watch the band perform in the garage, as they weren't allowed even near the working men's clubs. It was a fairly rough area, even back in the fifties, and miners wouldn't want kids hanging round their drinking holes after they'd spent a day underground. Anyway, they used to watch the performances, and Alan got hooked by the music. Even then, as a ten year old, he wanted to be in a band like his father, and set to work practising singing and harmonica playing. He formed his own country band when he was 15 - 'The Prarie Dogs', and used to practise using the equipment that my grandfather and his band left in the garage. It was never really thought that they'd do anything 'serious', and Alan was already being set up for a career in the civil service by the time he was 16.
So, he joined Wrexham council, but kept on playing with the Prarie Dogs. It was his dream to support the Minerva Cowboys in the working men's clubs, but he had to wait until he was 18. They practised together, and were ready to go on his 18th birthday, because he was the youngest of the band.
On the night before his birthday, my uncle accidentally got locked in the practise garage overnight. Not a major thing for most people, but Alan was terrified of the dark. He didn't speak about the experience because, tragically, he lost the ability to use his voice. Doctors at the time put it down to trauma, and even tried EST to try and get him to speak again. My grandparents were devasted, but Alan kept on in the civil service as a clerk. He didn't pick up a harmonica again, and The Prarie Dogs broke up. I remember as a young boy being around my uncle, and never really thinking about why he never spoke. He never seemed at peace with his silence though, and he used to spend hours listening to old country and western 78s, and would sit at the back of the clubs to watch my grandfather perform.
Fast forward to 2000, and it's the wake of my grandfather's funeral. The extended family have all turned up, and it's cheese sandwiches at his favourite club. It's a sad and rainy day, and not the first funeral of the week for my grandmother (who is now the only surviving grandparent I have). I was 20 by this point, and had only gone along out of politeness and to support my mother, having drifted from my extended family over the years. Towards the end of the day, as the beer had been flowing, the surviving memebers of the Minerva cowboys took to the stage to perform my Grandad's signature tune. Even I knew this one, but I don't know if it was a cover or not. It was a fairly fast rinky-dink number, and seemed quite melancholic even when I heard it on tape as a kid.
Anyway, they all assembled and picked up their instuments, and then without warning, my uncle walked on to the stage, holding a harmonica. They struck up, and with a real concentration, my uncle played along on the harmonica. The atmosphere was amazing.. tears were flowing from everybody, but they were of joy. He played so well, but apparantly he hadn't practised at all since the incident in the garage, almost forty years ago. But, the amazing part was that come the chorus, he neatly put the harmonica into his pocket and broke into the most perfect and sweet singing rendition of my grandfather's signature tune.
[ 23.03.2005, 09:10: Message edited by: Dr. Benway ]
quote:Originally posted by Dr. Benway: the mouse who lives in my room seems to like plastic bags and prawn crackers, as well as enjoying a good shit on my bed every now and again.
yeah, benway. that's a mouse, isn't it.
faeces kinda large for a tiny rodent, though, aren't they?
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quote:Originally posted by Uber Trick: O. Poor Jonesy
Why? Am I missing something here? Is Benway's post actually the lyrics to a song by a modern popular music outfit I've never heard of or something? Have I been made to look a fool again? Or am I generating pity for liking a sadpost?
quote:H Pony Hey jonesy, how was your child-infested weekend? You seem to be alive, still.
The weekend was a success (in that everyone involved is still breathing), and fun up to a point. After 48 hours I was longing to get home, though. When I did get a couple of minutes to myself, my brain had ceased functioning. I just stared at the newspaper without taking anything in.
The kids were pretty well behaved for the most part but, as they gradually realised they could get away with stuff their parents wouldn't usually allow, they began taking over affairs and turning me into their puppet. If I'd been there for a whole week, I've no doubt I'd have been calling them "master" and living in a basket.
BM's chocolate buttons suggestion worked a treat. I filled a purse with buttons and made a speech along the lines of "everything in this world costs. You need to pay for things, you need money. And you need to earn it." It was a lot like the start of Fame.
The chocolate didn't drive them mental, thankfully. Although I did get a sniff of what toddler angel dust might do to a youngun when they had a piece of birthday cake each. As soon as the icing hit his lips, the three-year-old turned into a mental human beat box with eyes like Christopher Lloyd at the end of Who Framed Roger Rabbit - which was pretty apt really because I'm sure he was close to saying "And when I kill my brother, I sounded like thiiiiiis!" in a helium shriek. The sugar bomb released his dark side and he went from a caring little brother who shared everything to a maniacal control freak who defended every item of personal property with extreme violence. His "mine" could shatter glass.
If I had to do it again, I'd try and space out my special moves a bit. They woke me up on Saturday at about 7:00 am. I didn't realise what time it was so I just kind of launched into a blitzkrieg of special moves. When I looked at my watch at 9:30, we'd already had breakfast, done a treasure hunt, taken the three-year-old's scooter (and his brother's "gooter") to the park, walked in the "deepest darkest woods", played football and torn the arse out of all the kit in the playground. Oh well, I thought, swings and roundabouts (PLEASE KILL ME). So, I'd pretty much shot my bolt by 9:30 on the first full day.
We kept them busy for as long as we could but by Sunday we were happy to let them watch back-to-back DVDs about dead deer and the massacre of a fish family.
Hard work. As far as my hidden agenda goes, Kirsty said "It's not enough to put me off having children but it certainly hasn't made me clucky."
Which I suppose is a start. Although she did say she missed them last night. Which is a nightmare.
Oh yeah, and the older one laid a little brown depthcharge, like a happeny, in the bath when I had my back turned.
"What's that?" he said, watching as I proceeded to fish it out of the tub.
I may have to imprison him in my garden shed until he agrees with me and I have finally bumped off my husband........
[ 24.03.2005, 06:11: Message edited by: Sidney ]
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