Well HELLO, big boy!

Meet Carl 'Big Boy' Carrot, fresh from my veg patch, and complete with carefully maintained punk hairdo. When not entertaining Mrs Carrot, he loves nothing better than reclining on a bed of kitchen paper in the warm autumn sun. He remains blissfully unaware that a pan of boiling water will be his ultimate doom, and that his large appendage will almost certainly drop off as he softens.

So enjoy it while you can, my orange friend. We're rooting for you.

Peeing by torchlight... and other stuff...

Well, the bathroom ceiling was repaired and plastered just over a week ago, and the cheque has arrived from the insurance company. Hooray!

The ceiling's dried out nicely, and we're looking forward to getting some lighting at last. (The novelty of peeing by torchlight has long since worn off!)

Having decided exactly where the new suite will be positioned, we've booked an electrician to install downlighters and extractor fan on Saturday. (Have also booked him to do some other overdue electrical work elsewhere in the house.)

Now need to make final decisions on loo, basin and tiles so that our builder can provide an accurate quote. (Unfortunately, OH has been tied up with other things this week and has another physio appointment tomorrow, so we've been struggling to find time.)

However, while he's been otherwise occupied, I have managed to get some sewing done - more party gift bags, and two gorgeous business card wallets. (See pics.) All now available at BaggieAggietoo.

Am hoping to get some more items made before the sewing-machine's put out of action by Saturday's electrical work!

Storm-damaged bathroom + eco-friendly party bags

This is the first chance I've had to blog for over a week, but at least we've managed to get quotes for our storm-damaged ceiling. Unfortunately, water also got behind the wall tiles, causing a bit of a dilemma, the details of which I won't bore you with as they'll only interest builders and tilers! To cut a long story short, we've decided to bring forward the bathroom replacement (originally planned for 2012). Can't say I'm sorry, as the current one, though only just over 5 years old and fitted just before we moved in, is ghastly - black wall tiles, cheap fittings (we've already had the loo repaired three times), poor workmanship, and badly planned (the door when only partly-opened bashes against the front of the basin). So, bathroom stores, here we come!

Miraculously, I did manage to get some sewing done last week - the fabric party or gift bags above. As I wanted them to be washable, reusable and durable, I decided on French (enclosed) seams and a double-hemmed opening (so no raw edges). I've set the satin ribbon in the back seam and triple-stitched for extra strength.

These bags are attractive gifts in their own right, I think - not only will children have reminders of wonderful parties long after they're over, but they'll be able to use them to keep their little treasures safe. I've found that adults too like these eco-friendly and green alternatives to plastic - I know of someone who filled one with lavender to scent the bedroom. Fab idea!

So if you're planning a party and eco-friendly is important to you, you can find 4-packs of these in my Folksy shop. I'll be adding more designs very shortly - unless, that is, we have any more natural disasters to cope with!

The Edinburgh Festival Alternative

It's been a bit of a crazy week, mostly thanks to the weather, which has put me all behind. Why, I hear you ask? Well, here in Wales we've had the worst torrential rain I've ever seen. It caused damage to our roof and consequently to the bathroom ceiling, which collapsed. Excitement we could definitely have done without. So most of our days have been spent dealing with the mess and various tradesmen tramping in and out. The roof itself was repaired very quickly and efficiently and we've found a good electrician who's disconnected the electrics and is ready to begin work once the ceiling's been replaced. (Both tradesmen recommended by a neighbour.) But finding a builder/plasterer who doesn't think he's taking part in the Edinburgh Festival (ie.quoting comedic you're-avin-a-larf prices) is proving to be troublesome, so we could be living without a bathroom ceiling for a lot longer than planned!

Even surrounded by all this mayhem, I did manage to get some sewing done - the fab and funky business card wallet and cute child's backpack pictured here.

Blogging about anything else, though (the nice exciting things that have happened to me, and yes, there've actually been some, lol!), I'm afraid will have to wait for a day or two, till I've caught up with some housework and got my breath back!

Fast Fiction Friday 9

Apologies for the delay, but here it finally is - The Wrong Room. ©opyright, as always, remains solely with me, the author.


THE WRONG ROOM

His current name is John. John Dale. An ordinary name, an invisible name, plucked from the air for that very reason. He lives inside his head and rarely speaks. He keeps himself to himself. It wasn’t always so, not before that last night in Basingstoke.
   He sits at a corner table for one, on a busy terrace overlooking a sea the same shade of blue as the Miro print on the whitewashed wall behind him. Though he belongs now on the fringes of society, he seeks the company of crowds. They shield him, like a locked door, from the horror lurking in the basement. They keep him anchored in the present. For a while, at least. Alone at night, in cheap no-questions-asked hotels, the past always wins, unless he’s drunk himself into oblivion.
   A black and white figure in a ridiculous oversized sombrero flits by his table, a tray of chinking glasses held aloft, blond sweat-dark hair fastened in a stubby ponytail. John lifts a hand to his own hair, blond too beneath the mouse-brown L’Oréal.
   Hey! Waiter! Any chance of some service here? Natives gone for a kip and left you to it, have they? Bleeding siestas. Good job you student types come here for the summer or we’d all die of thirst.
   Do they make you wear that hat for the tourists, then? Or was it your idea, to keep the sun off? Can hardly see your face. Good idea if you’ve only just arrived, mind. Sun’s bleeding strong here, even in the late afternoon. Course, I’m used to it. Almost a native now.
   Hey! I was here before them. Or was I. Maybe not. And anyway, they look like they need a drink even more than me. Frying on the beach all day, I expect. Can smell the suntan oil from here. Deep meaningful looks and holding hands under the table. Just wait till later, when the pink turns red. That’ll put an end to the shagging for a day or two.
   Speaking of which, it’s been a long time. Two years, to be exact. Can’t get it up any more, not since… Hey! Where the hell are you going now? No, no, you’re right. That old couple was already here when I sat down. Germans, aren’t they? Or maybe Dutch. Never was much good at languages. Well, what’s the point? Everyone speaks English. Except the bleeding French. They do it on purpose, you know, to piss us off. If I’d known, I’d have bought a phrase book at Dover. Needed all the help I could get, with the cops on my tail.
   Ah! You’ve noticed me at last. An apologetic glance that says ‘on my way’. And about time too.
   What the…? No, it can’t be… But it is, it is! Those amazing violet eyes, just like your ma’s! Scarred chin. Happened when you fell off your trike that time. Jesus Christ, you’ve come searching for me like I always feared you would. Close up, you’ll see through the dyed hair and brown contacts, right into my soul, what’s left of it. I have to – need to – get up and run. Run and run, across the sand and into the sea and swim to Africa. But I can’t. I’m frozen solid from the inside out.
   I love you, son. Please believe that. And I loved your ma, even after what she did. If I hadn’t got wrecked again that night, maybe we could’ve worked things out, me and her. She always said drink’d be my downfall and she was right.
   All that blood, so much blood. Everywhere, it was. Splattered up the walls, soaked right through the mattress. The Butcher of Basingstoke, they called me. Bleeding tabloids.
   I had no idea. No idea your ma was having an affair. I should have done. Even your Uncle Jack knew, and he was permanently bladdered. He told me, in the Feathers that night. Her boss, he said. Been going on for months. When I got home, there he was, her bastard loverboy, stretched out in our bed like he belonged there. At least, that’s what I thought. Bleeding drink messed up my radar good and proper. You have to believe I didn’t know. I didn’t know. Please, if you leave me be I promise I’ll never touch another drop, I promise I promise…
   I can’t stand it any longer. Do what you’ve come to do. It can’t be worse than all those terrible dreams and sleepless nights. Put me out of my misery. I’m ready, ready as I’ll ever be. Just make it quick, please make it quick…
   Wha…? I don’t believe it! You don’t look anything like my boy! Apart from the hair. Not even a hint of a scar. And I could’ve sworn, bleeding sworn…
   Is this my punishment, God? For running away? Don’t you think I hurt enough already? Don’t you? It was an accident, for Pete’s sake! I didn’t mean to kill him. It was the wrong room, the wrong bleeding room oh God...
   Don’t fuss, waiter, don’t fuss. Yes, I expect I do look like I’ve seen a ghost. For a minute there I thought…
   He lowers his wet face into shaking hands and forces down bile. Words form, fat and ungainly, on a tongue that feels and tastes like a slab of bloodless liver. “Get me a large scotch and I’ll be fine,” he croaks. “No, wait. On second thoughts, bring me the bleeding bottle.” 

© Rosie Rose

Apple trees in pots on patio or deck

In January 2009, two apple minarettes arrived, dormant and packed in straw. After taking advice on what types of apples we could successfully grow in our particular part of the UK, we'd chosen the varieties Red Windsor and Sunset (pollination groups A and B respectively, for harvests in early and mid-autumn). Equally excited and nervous, we planted them in large pots using John Innes No.3. Knowing we'd have to repot and cut back root growth every 2-3 years, and mindful of drainage and deck-cleaning issues, we set the pots on wheeled trolleys.

In the first year, we had little blossom and therefore little fruit. And what fruit did appear was destroyed by what we discovered were codling moth. Not that we should have allowed the trees to fruit at all in their first year, but we couldn't resist! We'd learned our lesson, though, and that autumn both trees were protected against these wee beasties by wrapping codling moth traps around each slender trunk. It was only in the following spring that we realised we'd forgotten to wrap the traps around the tree stakes as well. Duh!

So, convinced that codling moth would win the day again, we watched in trepidation as masses of scented apple blossom appeared and disappeared, and fruits began to swell. We fed the trees with tomato food at two-weekly intervals, just in case all was well, and prayed.

Thankfully, our prayers were answered: the Red Windsor apples in the photo are almost ready to harvest and look fine. Phew! The Sunset fruits look good too, and we'll be harvesting those in late September/early October. (Of course, now I've said that, something unforeseen is bound to happen. Watch this space...!)