main blogorrhoea	Tuesday, August 31 smelly fruitiness Distinct autumnal tang in the air over the last few days, and in the garden the tallest yellow sunflowers have keeled over beneath the weight of their huge seedladen heads. Yesterday Alison and I went for a bike ride around some villages west of Cambridge. Along one stretch, a pair of swallows wheeled in front of us as we rode like small delicate kites, and in the hedgerows we noted blue-purple sloes, ripe elderberries and ripening blackberries by the bushful. Next time, we decided, we'll take punnets. Ride a great success - 24 miles in total and I'm barely sore, musclewise, although as I had to rebreak in my saddle-points am now bruised and tender in places where I had forgotten I had places. Still, as am planning to do next year's London-Cambridge, had better get hard. Jack acted as coach and support crew - planned route, printed out map and met up with us in the Red Lion in Grantchester with bike racks in case we'd pedalled our last. But I'd forgotten the glorious effects of real ale on top of fresh endorphins, and after lunch and a pint breezily predicted that I could managed the remaining four miles home under my own steam. Turned out my legs and arse had other ideas and I only just managed it at a painful limp. But I still managed it. Triumphal post-ride pictures on the cycling photos page, near the bottom. A couple of new and not unrelated Bug photos have also been added to the August page. And finally: Zoe Williams discovers that Schaden[larden]telly is (gasp!) exploitative and cynical. Ah, bless. Where would we all be without the trusty old Grauniad to explain these things to us? Saturday, August 28 the face hugger game Lately Rebecca has been adding some new twists to the Face Hugger Game. The game originated when she was quite new, and managed one day to flick her burp rag over her head, from where she was unable to dislodge it. Terrified whimpers alerted me to her predicament and I rushed to her, tore the cloth from her face, pressing her to my bosom and murmuring assurances along the lines of my poor little precious darling baby girl, what a traumatising experience, don't worry, Mummy's here and will protect you &c &c. (I know. I ain't proud of it, believe me.) This was clearly a formative experience because from that day she has been perfecting the technique of dragging the muslin over her face, then huffing and thrashing until I notice and pluck it off her to reveal a grin of pure mischief. Occasionally I have even seen her pull the cloth down, peep over it to see whether I've noticed her plight, then replace it and resume her performance until she has my attention. And recently she's started using other face huggers such as her bib and the big gay bunny rabbit. Weird baby. See, she's doing it now. Better go... Friday, August 27 philosophy by numbers For the past few days I've been pondering the question of perfection. More specifically, I've been asking myself the following question: of the sum of human endeavour, exactly which tasks or projects must be executed to utter perfection lest disaster ensue? (No, I don't have too much free time: I usually ponder this sort of stuff while wiping other stuff up.) Anyway, so far I've come up with: laser eye surgery; neurosurgery; the de-fusion of unexploded ordnance; human cloning. And that's all I can think of for now. Laundry, especially the complete removal of carrot stains from delicate pastels, is definitely not on the list. In other news, it appears that sock puppets make having feet even more interesting and fun. We are grateful to Uncle Rob and Auntie Ryoko for facilitating this discovery. Thursday, August 26 Today at approx 1:30 the Bug rolled from her back onto her stomach for the first time. And I missed it 'cos I'd popped into the kitchen for a moment. Still, awfully proud. good for the gander Last night in a literally unprecedented display of womanliness I organised a girls night out. Not jim-jams and pillow fights, you understand, nor even overthrowing the patriarchy, just a bunch of woman eating Chinese food and drinking white wine and discussing childbirth and wedding dresses and parenting and the lunatic dietary preferences of certain persons of our acquaintance. It was a great night (especially after Melanie, the sly vixen, convinced me to leave the car overnight and cadge a lift back so I could enjoy a few glasses of wine). And I'd do it again, I tell you! Again! Muahahahahaha! Ahem. As a rule I've never been a particularly keen exponent of the Girls Night Out - don't like sticky liqueurs or romcoms and generally can't be arsed painting my nails or putting mashed avocado on my face (or any other part of me, for that matter...) And divvying my friends up along gender lines has never made much sense. In any case Jack and I don't tend to do the my friends/your friends split. Even our respective stag and hen nights were more of a token gesture with boys and girls splitting off in what was generally understood to be an ironic way, before reuniting after an hour or so once tradition had been satisfied. What's more my 'Hen Hour' was organised by my chief brides ... -bloke ... -person ... -supporter ... -thingy, the ever fabulous Ben, and I am reliably informed that more sticky girly drinks were consumed by the stag's contingent anyway. So there. But since a good few of my women friends are now or are about to become stay at home mothers* (for want of a better label) I believe it's vital to our wellbeing, and thus to the wellbeing of the nation, that we get to leave the sprogs with our partners and go out and have some fun now and again. As for Melanie, she doesn't need an excuse. On a more serious gender-related matter I'd like to express alarm and disgust at the recent anti Civil Union protests in my home town, and utmost solidarity with those in the counter-demonstration. I've always cherished the belief that NZ's a tolerant and fair-minded place but perhaps time and distance are clouding my memory. In any case I'd like my daughter to grow up in a country where she is free to love anyone she damn well pleases without being treated as a second class citizen. (Although, please God, I'd really prefer if she didn't hook up with a member of the Destiny Church.) *Congratulations, Lisa and Paul! Wednesday, August 25 yeah gidday Rebecca is now a New Zealand citizen and the proud holder of a NZ passport to complement her British one. I took her passport photos on our digital camera when she was about 6 weeks old, by the cunning strategy of lying her on top of a muslin (aka burp rag) to fulfil the requirement for a white or cream background, then placing my left hand out of sight under the muslin beneath her head so that I could hold her still and facing straight on to camera while firing off a quick succession of shots. It worked surprisingly well in that neither the Home Office or NZ Internal Affairs rejected the resulting picture. In both passport photos, she has a wispy but distinct Mohawk: at the moment, however, she's as bald as a bean. What's more, her eyes have changed colour since we described them as 'blue' on the application form: they're now different colours, one blue-grey, the other hazel-green with a patch of amber in the middle. Still, only a doting parent would notice such things. And as a Kiwi friend of mine once pointed out in somewhat aggrieved fashion, if you flash the magic pink passport at UK border control they rarely look up from their papers to check whether it's even a passport and not a folded piece of crimson cardboard with a couple of gold decals embossed on it. The accompanying letter from the Department of Internal Affairs was at pains to point out that her citizenship is 'by descent only' and that in order for her to pass it on to any future children, she would have to be resident in NZ for more than three years in order for it to be "upgraded" (their words, and their double quotes) to what I can only assume is first (or possibly business) class citizenship. Still, the Bug didn't seem to care for these distinctions, but let out an 'A-GEEEEEEEE!' of delight when I told her about her new nationality, or maybe this was because I'd just picked her up. Tuesday, August 24 comfortably numb Finished Oryx and Crake the other day. Loved it. Atwood's gallows humour characteristically wry and subdued, even when her subject matter is at its most brutal. One of those books that you are actually gutted to have finished. Also grateful for the new-mum-friendly structure - chapters of no more than 10 pages, organised into larger groups - perfect for the attention-span challenged. Speaking of which... Monday, August 23 The Bug has taken to closely scrutinising the manufacturers' labels on toys, bibs and clothes. And then putting them in her mouth, of course. What if she's becoming a label queen? I guess I should be worried if she starts hurling items labelled Tesco out of her cot. Sunday, August 22 Jack's just put a whole bunch of recent Rebecca photos on the August photo page. Enjoy! Got home from my exotic wiggling class to find this waiting for me: Blimey. So that's what he's been up to! Extremely impressed. And very touched. Not to mention overwhelmed. And looking forward to my whizzy new road bike. It's been a great weekend. Although we may need to buy the Bug some more orange clothes. Friday, August 20 beautiful thing It's been a few days since I put a picture of the wee one up, so here's one I've just taken: the mummy returns Tomorrow I'm going to an exotic wiggling workshop in Bedfordshire. I'd started going to classes early last year but packed it in soon after I got pregnant because the studio was stiflingly hot and it's hard to wiggle exotically while puking your ring out. Now that I've regained the will to live and can leave the Bug for more than a couple of hours I thought I'd give it another crack, so on Monday night I broke out the coin belt and went over to Alison's place for a refresher wiggling session. Alison's been wiggling for a couple of years now and being willowy, graceful and well-dressed, is wonderful to watch: I on the other hand am, as usual, utter pants. Mind you I think I've got the hang of the Raqs stance this time around - lean back into the pelvis, bum tucked under, weight sunk down and supported through the sacrum and heels: basically, just make like you're nine months pregnant. It's all down to exotic waddling, really. Yesterday at mother and baby group we did footprints of all the babies for a wall hanging. The Bug was first up and was intrigued by having her little feet dabbled in purple poster paint and pressed carefully onto the calico sheet, then amused by having them dangled in an ice cream container of cool water to be rinsed off. Must remember to take a camera next week so I can get a shot of the tiny purple feetprints. Now I'm seriously tempted to make some myself and have them tattooed somewhere on my person. Preferably before her feet get much bigger so we can save on needle time. Or maybe I'll take the wimp's option and have them screen-printed onto a t-shirt. Thursday, August 19 a transport of delight No-one has ever been more pleased to see me than the Bug. Even if I've only left the room for five minutes, when I return she greets me with a huge gummy grin, and then plants her feet, thrusts her hips upwards and bounces up and down with her weight supported entirely on her heels and shoulders, windmilling her arms wildly all the while. Sometimes she manages to travel several feet while doing this. Not bad for someone whose only means of locomotion is pushing herself around on her back with her heels. Occasionally she manages a complete 180 degree turn in her cot. Hell, for all I know she may even be managing the odd 360 while I'm not looking. Further progress is also being made in the Way of the Banana - this morning at first sight of the spoon she opened her mouth expectantly, and expressed grave and vocal disappointment when the bowl was empty. And I know babies are normally messy eaters, but my word, she didn't let much go to waste. Clever girl. Wednesday, August 18 before the breakthrough Slow but steady progress on the feeding front: this morning I mixed some banana in with her baby rice mix (having first pushed it carefully through a sieve to get rid of lumps). As usual got the 'annoyed post box' face with the first mouthful but things improved considerably once I worked out that the best feeding technique is to hold her thumb-sucking hand out of her mouth while keeping the spoonfuls coming fast enough that she doesn't have time to think better of it and shove thumb back in or clamp her lips obstinately shut against further attempts. By the end of the bowl she was opening her mouth expectantly for more so I dashed back to the kitchen to whip up a second bowlful, which she also polished off. A minor triumph there, I feel. Next week: avocado! This afternoon I took her for a walk around Anglesey Abbey, about 6 miles outside Cambridge. We'd been there the other weekend en famille but I figured I might as well make the most of our recent National Trust membership. Added to which we've exhausted the entertainment possibilities of the Arbury estate (apart from the bits where I dare not venture). Occurs to me that using the NT membership to take regular brisk walks around the various stately parklands and gardens of Cambridgeshire is a much more cost-effective way of keeping fit than gym membership. Even hauling the three wheeler buggy in and out of the boot as well as the carseat plus occupant in and out of the back seat is starting to put some muscles back on me, not to mention pushing the buggy over the offroad bits. And unlike most gyms, with NT properties there's always the likelihood of cake at the end. Tuesday, August 17 Cute Bug photo of the day, taken by Uncle Svend ishbel alice My friend Juliet had a baby a couple of weeks ago, and I went to visit them in hospital. Little Ishbel came five weeks early and while she had breathing sussed, she was still coming to grips with the idea that food was no longer piped in automatically, so had a very tiny naso-gastric tube in, bless her little heart. When I met her she was at the squirming and mewling stage of the newly-born, eyes screwed indignantly shut under the harsh fluorescent lights. Mind you at 35 weeks she weighed an impressive 8 pounds 4 oz (Rebecca, at nearly 42 weeks, weighed only 4 oz more) and if she'd gone to term it's estimated she may have attained a mighty 12 pounds. Juliet and Ishbel were staying in the same ward that the Bug and I had been in (very strange to climb those stairs without having to pause every four minutes for a contraction). Turned out the happy family photos we'd sent in with the Thank You card were still pinned to the notice board: Juliet had spotted them as she'd been wheeled past in the throes of labour and had exclaimed 'Heather and Jack! Heather and Jack!' Husband Jake's response had been along the lines of 'Don't be silly dear, it's just the drugs' until he worked out what she was talking about. Congratulations Juliet and Jake and welcome Ishbel, who is bright crimson, has masses of black hair and is very lovely. Ishbel's advent gave me the excuse to check out the new Babies R Backwards store (or whatever it's called) that's just opened up in Cambridge. (The Bug already has so much stuff that we may have to put another wing on the house.)* To give me a clear run at the place Jack and the Bug went off to Tesco together. Mind you, I could have used a steadying hand - on entering I had one of my shopping angst episodes during which the rows and rows of things and things and more things blurred and whirled together in a panic-smeared streak of ruffle and plaid and I couldn't focus on any one item; feelings of existential despair further heightened by synthetic Vivaldi blaring from every wall. All around me women in the end stages of pregnancy were waddling about the aisles throwing random items into their baskets while their consorts padded after them with identical expressions of quiet terror. Breathed through the impulse to turn and bolt and centred myself by laughing at the merchandise. The CD section was by the door so I started there. Along with the whales and dolphins I found 'Baby Celtic' and 'Baby Classical' ('Baby' Mozart, 'Baby' Beethoven, 'Baby' Vivaldi &c. Today's tip for the music-impaired: Naxos have a huge range of popular classics for a fiver a throw - it isn't packaged with pictures of babies or bunnies on the cover but (ssshhh!) it's still the same music). No sign of 'Baby Thrash Metal', 'Baby Hardcore Techno' or even 'Baby Experimental Jazz'. More perplexing yet were the Baby Feng Shui and Baby Zen CDs, which I came upon in the Baby Buzz Word section. Had a look for the Baby Aromatherapy CD but it seems that one hasn't been released yet. Either that or there's a gap in the market waiting to be plugged. Then, on the way out, a nice young man gave me a promotional bag of free stuff, and I rang Kathie in great excitement to tell her about the great new shop I'd found. I love free stuff. *I still couldn't go without getting her a couple of little pink and purple romper suits. Monday, August 16 whatever's the the matter with mary jane? First attempt to feed the Bug baby rice mush took place yesterday. Started off with her sitting on Daddy's lap staring at Mummy with eyes bright with love and trust; however when I spooned in the first mouthful her mouth went square with disgust and she regarded me with deepest reproach. After a few more spoonfuls she discovered that rather than letting it slide out of your mouth and down your chin you could expel it with greater force, preferably in your parents' direction. At which point we decided that while persistence was the key, so was knowing when to quit. Had another go this morning amid much yum yumming and 'look at Mummy eating the delicious rice'-ing: as part of the pantomime I tried it and found it not half bad. Sort of reminded me of British school dinners in the 1970s, but then I realised that I'd been scraping the drooled-out stuff of her chin with the spoon and then putting it back into the same bowl I was making a great show of sampling from to show how tasty it was. Oh well - as I am now a parent I am resigned to abjection on a daily basis. Kristeva, eat yer heart out! Sunday, August 15 orality Yesterday at a barbecue the Bug stuck her big toe in her mouth for the first time ever and I got so excited that I yelled out to Jack across the garden where he was busy grilling dead things and made him come and watch this miracle unfolding before our eyes; fortunately as there were lots of other newish parents there relatively few pitying glances were exchanged over the head of the mad woman in the corner shouting 'Jack! Come quick! She's got her toe in her mouth! Today we're going to give her her first ever solids. Which will actually be baby rice mush, but it counts as solids if they eat it off a spoon, apparently. I'm quite excited about this momentous event, actually. Friday, August 13 freaky friday Hegemonic femininity finally has me in its thrall. Lisa and Paul are getting married in September and various paramatrimonial activities are being organised along traditional gender lines. It alls sounds jolly fun: Jack will be going to a stag day of manly outdoor pursuits of the quad biking/paint balling/banging rocks together variety while I'm going to a 'Pamper Party' at Lisa's where there will be manicures and pedicures and facials, oh my! Now, I've never been much of a girly girl - in the past when friends have got married I've always pleaded in most pathetic fashion to be allowed go on the stag night, but to no avail. Not even to Jack's, worse luck. But given that a close friend of ours got hideously mangled while quad-biking (admittedly in NZ, whose macho culture could kick this macho culture's Vitamin D-deficient arse) and that the only time I went paint-balling I emerged a whimpering mass of contusions, I've had a change of heart: Jack is most welcome to the day of manliness; I prefer Lisa's event any day. And what's more I'm really looking forward to my facial. So, bring on the girly fun, I say! I wonder if there'll be a pillow fight? Thursday, August 12 mommie dearest The other morning while unpoppering the Bug's sleepsuit I caught myself humming 'The Stripper'. Now am worried that am going to turn into one of those parents about whom their offspring are hideously embarrassed in later life. Or possibly sooner; was getting some pretty odd looks as I was whirling the sleepsuit round and round over my head, I can tell you. Svend came to see us yesterday as part of his peregrinations around the UK. He presented the Bug with two splendid plush toy native NZ birds (a tui and a kea) which she regarded quizzically before stuffing claws first into her mouth; later she bonded with him as is her custom by throwing up on his t-shirt, which he took in good part. We cooked a roast lamb dinner and he played us the Flight of the Concords, a couple of Newzild lads whose act consists of deadpan comic songs, pastiche, high rising terminal inflections and general weirdness - very Kiwi, very funny. Apparently they did pretty well at the Edinburgh Festival, and one of them was, naturally, an elf in LOTR. Wonderful to see Svend after a v long interval and we wish him well on his quest. Wednesday, August 11 good day, sunshine The morning ritual, ever evolving, has recently become a thing of joy and beauty. The Bug, on the other side of the wall, wakes us and herself slowly with murmurs that turn in into cheery singing and, if you don't eventually get the hint, indignant squawks. Jack goes in to her and as soon as the light goes on, gets what he describes as a 'pumpkin grin'. Bottoms are attended to and then she is brought into her still-groggy mother for a long feed. After this Ma and Pa breakfast and listen to the Today Programme while the Bug kicks up her heels on the futon next to us. By the time we're done with breakfast she's rubbing her eyes and grumping; for the past couple of days Jack has lain down beside her encircling her with his arm and she has gone back to sleep as I creep across creaking floorboards in search of a shower. She's still asleep, adrift in the middle of the big bed from which I've silently removed the pillows and duvet so she won't pull them onto her head. Radio 4 is on in the kitchen, the day's bottles are well under way, I've a cup of tea brewing, and if I play my cards right I may get to read a chapter of Oryx and Crake while I drink it. Life is good. Gah, I think she's awake again. Farewell, Oryx and Crake... Hmmm, silence again. Anyway, I leave you with the quote of the day, from the inimitable Svend: 'They [group of fellow Kiwis] told me about strange encounters with English "ramblers", who wear laminated maps around their necks and have alpine sticks for walks that are often considerably less arduous than what the typical Aro Valley flat has to go through to fetch the mail.' Tuesday, August 10 don't poke yer eye out Today's theme tune: 'For Today', by the Netherworld Dancing Toys, while driving through sunny countryside after several days seeping humidity and sullen rain. The track's on a compilation tape of New Zealand music that my friend and former Gladflatmate Keay made and sent to me when I was living in Paris in 1993. It contains Blam Blam Blam's 'There Is No Depression In New Zealand', Chris Knox's 'Not Given Lightly', Supergroove's 'You Gotta Know' and Peter Cape's recording of 'Tangatawhakatangihanga Po Kai...', among other NZ classics. It also features, from the annals of Auckland University's radio station bFM, a selection of Dad's Tips, snippets of homespun wisdom delivered without inflection. Or sense - sample Tip: 'Don't waste your money on those fancy phone extension cords; just give Telecom a bell and get them to let some slack off at their end. Works a treat.' Or 'Glenn was having some problems with his algebra. I said "Don't worry. X is almost always eleven and y is always nine, unless it's followed by a six. And I'll tell you that for nothing. Righto!' OK, so you had to be there. But better still, it features what may be the only extant recording of fellow Gladflatter and hotshot lawyer Andrew Culley phoning up John Banks's radio talkback show and asking him if he was a gunrunner like his friend Ross Meurant, flummoxing him so much that he cut off the next caller. All in all the tape's pretty well irreplaceable and over the last decade I have listened to it hundreds of times. So I really hope it doesn't wear out ever. Incidentally I'm sure all (any?) NZ readers will be aware that 'There Is No Depression In New Zealand' can also be sung to the tune of our national anthem. 'One song to the tune of another' is my favourite round on I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue. Frankly I think it's the funniest thing ever, an opinion that garners me strange and pitying looks. Best one I've heard yet was the lyrics of Procul Harem's 'Whiter Shade of Pale' to the tune of 'Roll Out The Barrel'. In my own small way I've been trying to enlarge the canon, but the best I've been able to come up with is still 'Heartbreak Hotel' to the tune of 'Holiday in Cambodia', and that was months ago. Monday, August 9 sunbathing in the rain Dripping humidity all night and all day. I don't even remember it being this humid when I lived in Queensland, years ago. Or maybe it's just that British humidity is like British leaves: the wrong sort. Couldn't sleep last night because the sweat running into my eyes kept waking me up. This afternoon I put the Bug in her pram, packed the rain cover and went off to find some rain. When it finally came I put the brake on and sat on a park bench in the middle of the Science Park smelling the wet lavender and moaning softly to myself, while the Bug slept in her not quite hermetically sealed rain bubble. It didn't progress past a thickish drizzle though. Electrical storms are forecast for later. Bring on the thunder and lightening. Bring them on. Friday, August 6 wotthehell, archie, wotthehell the-spacebar-is-sticking. i-feel-like-archie-the-cockroach-in-the-don-marquis-poems. at-least-i-can-use-the-shift-key-and-don't-have-to-butt-the-keys-with-my-head. [later] turns-out-jack-spilt-beer-on-the-keyboard. nice-one. Thursday, August 5 lavender blues Apparently all babies are male until proven otherwise. Yesterday the Bug and I went round to the Hippy Hippy Co-op for the week's supply of mung beans. I had dressed her in pink stripey shorts, flowered vest and little pink baseball cap, but I was still accosted with 'Oh, what a lovely baby - how old is he? What's his name? Is he a boy?' This by a thirty-something New Dad, what's more, there with his two young daughters (both of whom had silly floaty pre-Raphaelite names). So clearly it's no use colour-coding her unless I dress her from top to toe in diaphanous pink organza with frills and bows and bits hanging off it. Or maybe next time I'll just answer 'Yes, his name's Lionel, and I'm raising him gay.' Wednesday, August 4 hungry Took Rebecca to be weighed yesterday and she is a glorious 14 pounds 13 oz or 6.71 kg. While she spent the first four months of her life climbing happily up the 75th percentile curve, the last two weigh-ins she's been on the 50th percentile despite the fact that I've been supplementing her feeds with (gasp!) formula, which, as we know makes them obese and stupid and as such is only for the feckless and lazy. Fact is, while the current wisdom is that breast milk supply keeps up with demand, the current wisdom is demonstrably, empirically, bollocks. Mentioned the supply prob to the Health Visitor, not Carrie but a perfectly nice stand-in with very unfortunate teeth (Attention British people: fluoridate your water supply already!) Health Visitor was sympathetic. 'Eat more! Rest lots!' she advised cheerfully. Er, you do know I've got a four-month-old baby, right? I mean, she's right here... Oh all right then I'll try. Last night I went to see Stepford Wives with a bunch of women while Jack stayed home and drank beer and watched The League of Extraordinary Gentleman. Does the fact that he babysat Rebecca while doing this make the situation ironic or not? Now I'm confused. (Maybe I should spend less time trying to decide whether stuff is ironic.) More on the movie later, perhaps, if I get time. And can cultivate an attention span of more than two paragraphs. And remember to eat something. Tuesday, August 3 under my skin Bothered by the heat and humidity, the Bug is scratching herself to ribbons, frequently drawing blood. Every morning her poor little baldy head and face bear a fresh set of gashes, and she is starting to look like I've tied her into a sack with a couple of alley cats - hardly the picture of the loved and cherished infant that we are trying to present to the world. Am taking her to the health visitor to be weighed this afternoon; am worried that she'll take one look at the damage and press the big red 'Alert Social Services' button under the table. In the meantime, a battery of remedies are being tried, including the application of various unguents, and we're desperately trying to stop her from shredding herself further. But scratch mitts don't stay on, and in any case prevent her from sucking her thumb, which at least keeps one hand occupied; clipping her nails back assiduously only seems to sharpen them. Really don't know what to do. Monday, August 2 the sun will come out And then there are some days I am at my wits' end. Tomorrow will be better. Sunday, August 1 the panda's thumbs-up Almost finished Eats, Shoots & Leaves - v readable, even read-out-able, once the style settles down a little and she starts telling you things you actually need to know. As everyone's taking editorial pot-shots at Miss Truss (or should that be pot shots? See Ch. 6, 'A Little Used Punctuation Mark') I feel I should add my two penn'orth and point out that in the phrase 'Meanwhile, as Kingsley Amis points out in his The King's English' (p. 145), the use of 'his' is clumsy and unnecessary and just plain wrong. I guess Miss Truss's* editor was just too cowed to point this out. *Miss Truss, now how about that as a nom de guerre for a dominatrix? A very special sort of dominatrix. Incidentally, is the plural of dominatrix dominatrices? Have wondered this ever since the Peter Plumley Walker case... flower grrl Yesterday we took her to Anglesey Abbey and showed her the Dahlia Garden. Noises the Bug can now do a creditable imitation of: bagpipes; very small, very high-pitched motorbike; Tarzan's jungle ululation. Previously, in h-blog

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