Fete accompli

Today was School Fete Day.

(Thank you for your kind wishes, I'm fine.)

Among the many notes that come home from school, cunningly disguised on different coloured pieces of paper in an effort to make them Stand Out! and Look Fun!, the one that announces the impending fete could well be the most shocking. For you know that soon there will be raffle tickets to sell, trash'n'treasure to sort, baskets to fill, hampers to contribute to, and a deluge of rainbow-coloured notes to be endured.

But it's all over now.

Being the good P&F member that I am, I was helping to man a stall today. The book stall. My natural habitat. I was not in charge. I made sure of that. But I was there, sorting the books into $5, $2 and $1 sections. Doing the mental arithmetic (I've still got it!). Wondering about the kinds of books that people offload...

There was a lot of Maeve Binchy this year. Has she gone out of fashion? I love a bit of Maeve. Soft, gentle stories well told. There was what looked like someone's entire Andy McNab collection. Surely the SAS never goes out of fashion? Jeffrey Deaver's shiny byline was blinding in its prevalence, as was Lee Childs's Jack Reacher novels. Someone else decided it was finally time to offload the Virginia Andrews back catalogue.

"I haven't seen these since I was 15," I remarked to my co-worker.

"Looks like these have been in someone's cupboard since then," she said, picking up the tattered copy of Flowers in the Attic, which immediately fell open to a well-worn section. We looked at each other and hurriedly returned it to the display.

I had taken the opportunity to clear out a few shelves in the Fibro. Which led to the bizarre situation where my Mum came past, picked up a book that had been on my shelf, and then had to pay $2 to buy it. I know. I can't quite believe I charged my own mother to buy my recently-owned book either. But I felt trapped - it was on the table, it had been donated, there was an audience and, besides, it's a fund-raiser, right?

No, I won't be living it down in a hurry.

Of course, it was the books that didn't make the table that were the subject of much discussion. It's a Catholic primary school, so you'd expect the three or four copies of the New Testament, as well as the slew of school readers that mysteriously find their way back to school as 'donations'. But a copy of 365 ways to drive a man wild in bed? It's not so much that someone would have it - there's many a spicy, diverse sex life happening behind closed doors. But to donate it to the school fete? What exactly are you saying with that gesture? You've given up? You don't need it any more? There's plenty more where that came from? You're happy with just the one wild way, thanks?

All in all, the volunteer team agreed later over a beer at the pub, it was a good day. Teachers got dunked, there was the usual melee at the jumping castle, the kids all came home with other kids' cast-off toys (Mr3 is now the proud owner of a large, plastic motorcycle of indeterminate use, bought for a bargain price), and there were enough trestle tables to go around (unheard of in the history of fetes in general). I even picked up some cool, handmade bunting for $5 - perhaps not as cute as the cake bunting from KikiLaRu in the image, but still...

We can all breathe a sigh of relief and stop ducking the coloured notes. Til next year.

Second-chance Saturday

Sister B (Maxabella to those who have met her) tells me that my linky idea is a good one, but I have no idea about marketing. Oldie-but-goodie - as last week's debut linky was named - is, apparently, old hat. Not cute. So I need to come up with something that will look good on a button.

Any suggestions gratefully accepted.

In the meantime, I suggest we press on. The idea is that you dust off one of your fabulous early posts. One that you love but that didn't get the attention it deserved due to the relative unknown-ness (new word, I just invented it) of your stellar blog. The rules are simple: follow the Fibro if you're not already a friend, link up and share some comment love with your fellow linkyers (also a new word - how do you like it so far?).

What are you waiting for? World's easiest linky. You've already written the post, so simply dust it off and let that senior citizen shine.

My post this week is all about Cruising. Yep, Fam Fibro went on a cruise, almost a year to this day. How did it go? Read on to find out. And then link up below.

{image: photoxpress}

Wild about Harry

Mr6 and I are reading Harry Potter and The Philosopher's Stone together. Last year, I read it to him. He loved it. Could recount every detail. Then someone from school lent him the DVD. I warned him he wouldn't like it. This is a kid who has nightmares at the slightest provocation. Somehow I felt that Voldemort was large provocation. But he was not to be dissuaded.

So I let him watch it. With these words ringing in his ears: "I will let you watch this so that next time I tell you that you are too young for a movie you will believe me."

Five nights of waking up screaming later, he believed me. "I thought Fluffy was soft and purple," he said of the three-headed doberman depicted in the film.

"I wish you still did," I answered.

The unfortunate side-effect was that he wouldn't even read the second book with me. We'd begun it, he was enjoying it. Post-movie, it was pushed so far to the back of the book shelf that we have yet to find it again.

No-one was more surprised than me when he bought out the first book again last week. "Let's read this," he said. "I've forgotten what happens."

This time, we're taking it in turns to read. I love Harry Potter. I do. I read them all before I even had children. They're just fun. A rollicking good read. Say what you like about J.K Rowling's literary prowess, the woman knows how to write a great story.

So far, so good. No sign of nightmares or even unsettled dreams. Then again, no sign of Fluffy yet, and only the slightest mention of He Who Shall Not Be Named. I have my fingers crossed we'll get to the end and he'll want to go on to Book Two.

Then we'll just have to find it...

Speaking of reading, don't miss your weekly dose of quality blogs at Lori's Flog Yo Blog Friday.

Don't bother me, I'm bathing

If you believe the media, the bath is the last retreat for mothers. Tired? Have a bath. Stressed? Have a bath. Kids driving you mad? Have a bath. Housework getting you down? Have a bath. Having trouble juggling work/home/family/life? Have a bath. There is nothing, it seems, that cannot be cured by closing the door and pouring an essential oil upon troubled waters.

Bath humbug.

I like a bath. I do. I'm just out of one right now. No essential oils - the best we stretch to in the Fibro at present is the one-litre economy-sized Space Bubbles mix. Lots of bubbles. Kid friendly. Smells like bath water. Still, it's not like I didn't make an effort. But I do have one bone to pick with the 'a bath will solve all your troubles' brigade.

Bath toys.

How is a mother supposed to relax in her bathing sanctuary when she is sharing head-room with a small flotilla of dank boats? How is she supposed to light a candle and lie back and think of nothing (and we all know I'm not that great at that bit anyway), when there is a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle figure poised to leap down on her from the tap? How, oh how, is she supposed to get into the whole relaxation mode when she has to clear four aeroplanes, a Batman figure, three cups of assorted sizes, a couple of bubble blowers, a water pistol or two, Ben 10's skateboard and a plastic syringe from the bath before she can fill it?

Everything but the duck.

We have tried many methods of corralling the bath toys. We have strung them up in a net affixed with suction cups. Not enough suction. We have stashed them in plastic boxes, from which they quickly escape. We have culled and re-culled and culled again. Still they breed.

So, yes, here I am, fresh from my bath. Am I relaxed? Am I feeling ready to juggle the work/home/family/life conundrum? No. I am too tired from juggling bath toys.

PS: How cute is this image? It's from barkingbirdart's etsy store, a limited-edition print. Love it!

Decisions, decisions, decisions

Driving home from the dentist yesterday, it struck me how many decisions we have to make every day. Think about it. Actually, don't, it will do your head in, as I discovered driving home from the dentist yesterday.

Anyway, I made a late decision yesterday to sign up for NaNoWriMo. If you don't know about it, it's National Novel Writing Month, a US-based initiative that encourages would-be writers to put their words where their mouths are and crank out a 50,000-word manuscript in 30 days. As of today, 156,415 people had signed up.

It's not easy. I tried it about three years ago and failed miserably. However, I got down 15,000 words of what became my first full-length novel (future of which still to be decided).

This time, I'm breaking the rules a little and using it to break the back of my current work in progress. I just love the daily counting. Watching the total go up. The little graph that charts your progress. I promise not to claim a prize if I actually get to 50,000 new words this time. The prize will be finishing the damn book (we've talked about this before).

So far I'm on target. Then again, it's only day two... With any luck, I'll have a complete first draft (or thereabouts) by November 30. Then the real work can begin.

Are you doing NaNo this year? Excited? Have you made any big decisions lately?


{image: cuffcraft/etsy}

Suburban nightmare

What is it about dentists that strike fear into the hearts of ordinary folk? For the most part, those dentists I've met seem nice enough people. Clean living. Smiley. A little buttoned-up in their neat white shirts, but who'd want a dentist with sloppy personal style?

And yet, the very sight of their hygienically decorated rooms is enough to make us quake in our boots. Or maybe it's just me?

I spent the morning in the dentist's chair. Toes clenched. Arms folded tightly across my chest as he instructed me to move my jaw in the opposite direction to my face. Mouth held in the 'Scream' position. Jaw aching. Skull reverberating with the high whine of that eerily pitched drill.

Two broken fillings. Not one. But two. Somebody doesn't like me.

But, you know what, it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Either dentistry has moved on substantially in the 15 years since my last filling, or I have. I used to have my fillings done without needles because I was more afraid of the needle than the drill. Now I wonder what the hell I was thinking.

Perhaps it's because I have to set a good example these days. The boys attended my last check-up with me. Mr3 excited by the up-and-down chair. Mr6 with anxiety set of screechingly High. For them I had to pretend that having two fillings replaced was a breeze. Somehow it's easier to be brave for someone else.

They didn't attend today's event. A good thing, too. I wouldn't have wanted to keep smiling in the face of that drill. It would be hard to hold the 'scream' position and smile at the same time.

Imagine it.

I'd never get them back there. When, really, it's not so bad.

Although, everything's always better when it's over, now isn't it?

{image: graphicspaces/etsy}