DELUSION, n. The father of a most respectable family, comprising Enthusiasm, Affection, Self-denial, Faith, Hope, Charity and many other goodly sons and daughters.

Ambrose Bierce was a cynic; An individual that he himself defined as “a blackguard whose faulty vision causes him to see things as they are, not as they ought to be.” Author of the famous Devil’s Dictionary, the war embittered Bierce saw through spit shine exteriors and honed his cutting brand of satire at the close of the 19th century in America. As I get older, I find myself appreciating him more than I did in high school, before World Rot set in the second I figured out what was really going on. I was reminded of this quote regarding charity this afternoon.

One doesn’t like to knock charity. It’s a uniquely human virtue. But, so busy are our Western lives that the average person’s dealings with charity have more to do with the capacity of their wallets rather than the works of their hands. Such is the case with me. Direct Debit was a godsend for charities all over the world. Not only did they not have to rely anymore on constant reminders for donations (although they pretty much still do that anyhow) but it allowed their benefactors to go back to being completely self-absorbed while still feeling the warm glow of generosity.

I don’t give as much as I’d like. Maybe when I’ve got my housing situation squared away, I can do a proper budget and give what I feel I SHOULD be giving, but for now, it has to being something I won’t miss. Which doesn’t really make it charity in the strictest definition, but some guy in Somalia who gets a goat that I paid for probably isn’t going to quibble over semantics.

Telemarketing is one step away from baby eating in my Big Book of Moral Transgressions. But for some reason, when charities engage in this most heinous of activities IT’S OKAY. Because obviously, anyone who refuses a real, live plea for help from an honest to god human being on behalf of another honest to god human being is obviously a complete asshat.

The woman from Oxfam who called me was obviously drawn by Disney. I could imagine her on the other end of the phone, no doubt, surrounded by cheerful woodland creatures who rejoiced in her very presence and were very, very careful not to excuse themselves on her office chair.

One also likes to think that when one gives cash to a charity, it is, within moments, helping the people who you see on television who are dying from not even having the benefit of as much to eat per day as you end up throwing in the garbage. That’s what you want your money to go to. But instead, as opening gambit with Disney Woman proved, this is not always the case.

Overly Sincere and Caring Charity Girl- Mrs. Beatty, before we go any further in this conversation I have to explain to you that Oxfam is paying the company I work for an itsy bitsy, teeny tiny widdle percentage to help inform their generous benefactors about All The Good They’re Doing in the World.™

Me-Alrighty then.

The rest of the conversation just went downhill from there.

Overly Sincere and Caring Charity Girl- Mrs Beatty, you’ve just done so much for us over the past year that I just want to thank you from the bottom of my widdle heart. Just thinking about the sacrifice you make month after month truly brings tears to my incredibly bwue widdle eyes…

Me- I give you £10 pounds a month. Plus some emergency appeal cash for really bad stuff.

Overly Sincere and Caring Charity Girl- I know. And you are an amazing human being.

Me- You want more money, don’t you?

Overly Sincere and Caring Charity Girl- Oh NO, Mrs. Beatty, I wouldn’t DREAM of asking you to sacwifice anymore of your hard earned salary, even though there are children starving to deff in India and people wif diseases so hideous it makes my incredibly bwonde widdle head SPIN with…

Me- Make it 15.

Overly Sincere and Caring Charity Girl- OH MRS BEATTY, YOU’VE MADE THOSE CHILDREN IN INDIA SO HAP…

Me- *click*

Note to Oxfam: For the love of god, spam me. Deluge my inbox with electronic cries for help which I may or may not respond to if I have some spare cash. Turn my living room into a recycling bin with Emergency Appeal packets. BUT FOR THE SAKE OF ALL THAT IS MERCIFUL, NEVER MAKE ME HAVE TO TALK TO HER AGAIN.

The Rock Star got this brilliant shot of Dougal on his phone a few days ago. He looks like he’s dreaming of good things.

It occurred to me as I was chopping carrots for dinner on Sunday why the taste of them evokes a mild form of melancholy for me. Carrots taste of denial.

I grew up in a house with two people who were all too aware of the four food groups. You would never find a pack of Doritos in my parent’s house. Every 3 months or so, I was allowed a “special cereal” (usually Lucky Charms) which I inevitably consumed in less than 2 days, reaching the heights of sugar ecstasy and then coming down with an unpleasant bump. Snacks in our house were limited to a handful of crackers (usually Triscuits or Wheat Thins. Decadence!) and just about any kind of fruit or vegetable I could imagine. Even today I find it hard to justify a bag of crisps at a petrol station, even if it’s what I desperately crave. In college, I’d put raw broccoli in my salads and make terrible faces while chewing, prompting my friends to ask me what in the hell I was doing. “My dad told me to eat it.” I said, unable to offer any other explanation. I knew it was good for me, even if I secretly wanted a salad made entirely of iceberg lettuce, ranch dressing and Bacos.

Carrots often took the place of chips or pretzels in packed lunches. They were the “you can’t have that because it’s not good for you here, eat these instead” food. They were offered in lieu of what was truly desired; something wonderful, salty and loaded with carbs.

I don’t begrudge my parents the grounding in good nutrition that they gave me. Although I weigh more than I ought to, I’m sure their efforts have made sure that I’m not one of those people on Oprah who have to be winched out their bedroom window with a crane.

 But, despite the fact that I still eat them, carrots will forever taste to me of abstention; the denial of the flesh. I want my damn Doritos.

Your brain cherishes embarrassing memories. It likes to take them out and fondle them. This probably explains a lot of unexplained suicides.

In the 80’s, Dave Barry wrote a column about the persistence of memory when it comes to moments that you’d rather forget. Not too long ago, a program on the workings of the brain attempted to explain this phenomenon. Apparently, our brain’s chemical reaction to embarrassing or humiliating moments enables a “hard burn” of the memory into our little grey databanks. This is supposed to help you avoid doing the same thing in the future. (i.e. mouthing off to someone 3 times your size and getting beaten mercilessly in front of a crowd of your peers.) The persistence of embarrassing memories is meant to protect us from further shame in the future.

The one that my brain loves to pull out and make me watch at opportune moments is when I farted on a date with a guy that I was really trying to impress. This happened well over 15 years ago now, when I was young enough to think that someone that you had to try REALLY REALLY hard to impress was worth having. But it came up this morning as I was brushing my teeth and I have no idea why, but it made me want to jam the toothbrush into my eyesocket. My guess it that this guy probably couldn’t remember this occurrence (or me, for that matter) if he tried, but due to the treacherous chemical workings of my mind, I can still remember not only where we were sitting when it happened, but what I was wearing. (The wall outside Flights of Fancy in downtown Frederick. Overalls and a red blouse.)

Thank you, brain, for reminding me of that. I’m sure the continued repetition of this event is sure to remind me in the future to WATCH OUT FOR SNEAKY UNEXPECTED GAS. THANK YOU AGAIN.

So, as a Friday “chime-in”, everyone else now gets to tell about that moment that you can’t forget but wish you could.

There comes a point in the lives of most people when they make a lifestyle choice. Some choose to sleep with someone unconventional. Some decide to pierce something unconventional. In the case of The Rock Star and myself, we have decided to continue to live somewhere unconventional.

We’ve been agonizing about our inability to get on the property ladder for the last 4 or 5 years now. We know we’re not the only ones; house prices all over the UK have risen so ridiculously that most everyone we know (who didn’t buy 5 or more years ago) is struggling with the same issues. The first hurdle: the deposit. The second hurdle: furnishing. The third hurdle: a burst housing bubble resulting in negative equity and us having to live in a drain somewhere, possibly with children that we might be forced to sell for meat.

To be honest, the thought of leaving the canals has always pained us somewhat. Giving up our view, our ducks, our weeping willow, the beautiful water shimmer on the bedroom ceiling on sunny days, not paying council tax (ah HA!)…only over the last two days have both of us come to the conclusion that we’re not ready to give all that up.

So we’re looking into buying a Dutch Barge.

We’ve looked at these things longingly all of our years on the canal. They are closer to being “proper boats” than the traditional narrowboat; an actual keel and a wheelhouse, capable of navigating the rivers and even the Channel. (The idea of cruising in France and Holland is really quite appealing. I think I would have to be knocked out for the Channel crossing, though.) The biggest appeal factor, however, is the space.

This site has some great pictures of barge interiors. Although most of the fittings are not to my taste, it gives you an idea of how spacious the insides of these floating wonders are. I’ve certainly lived in apartments in the past with fewer bedrooms and less floor space. The ones we have our eye on are 12ft x 60ft and fitted out to make absolutely the best use of the space available.

The only downside is the fact that the boat will not appreciate in value. In fact, we’ll have to take every precaution to make sure it doesn’t DE-valuate. But when it comes down to it, our happiness is just as important as vastly inflated housing profit margins. (The Idiot is in the process of selling his house that he bought a YEAR ago for 128k and is now worth 159,950. We are throwing up just thinking about it.) We love our life on the canals and if the only drawback is the space, we’ve certainly come up with a clear solution.

Further updates on Operation BigBoat as events warrant.

We all knew these existed somewhere. I mean, they don’t just let proctology students loose in a room with a patient and a tube of lube. Well, thanks to mimi smartypants, we all now know where they come from. Seriously thinking about one of these for our future mantlepiece.

As far back as is documented, the women in my family have been enamoured of birds.

I’m fortunate enough to have an account written by my grandmother concerning childhood experiences with HER grandparents. In one section, she talks about the “bird oriented” nature of life with my great, great grandmother.

“A bird that built its nest in the tall pear tree in the yard was the Oriole. Grandmother would hang (cloth) strips on the clothesline and I would watch breathlessly from inside the window to see them carried away to the top of the tree. One time she hung a narrow strip of red cloth on the line and all summer we would look up at that Oriole’s nest and marvel at that red strip so cleverly woven in…”

While I was growing up, my own mother’s backyard was always as busy as an aviary. The marvellous, winged show would begin in the morning, when she went out to scatter seed and press gooey globs of homemade suet in the feeder. (Made with lard and peanut butter. My father once actually got a health lecture from a supermarket clerk while buying supplies) Living in the woods, we got the best of the bird world; the colourful tree dwellers and the magnificent songsters. Cardinals, goldfinches, indigo buntings, bluebirds, thrushes and phoebes. I remember the absolute wonder of the first time I ever held a bird in my hands, one that had bumped into our window and sat stunned on the ground; its body so unbelievably light. One of my great pleasures in visiting home is my time spent curled up on the sofa in the sunroom and watching all the little flying jewels outside the window. 

I do my best now that I have my own little outdoor space to bring as many feathery beauties around as I can. English birds are by nature hedge dwellers, so slightly less spectacular in the color stakes, but I still love to open the curtains by my bed in the morning and watch my feeders while I’m waking up. Forgive the girlie indulgence, but here are some of the little guys I see most every day.

Blue Tit- probably the most colourful and most common of my regular visitors. Particularly fun to watch in spring when babies come and learn to eat at the feeder.

Great Tit- the bird about who’s name the most jokes get made. Lots of the same markings as the blue tit, but larger and with a black cap.

Long Tailed Tit- a new and welcome visitors. Very appealing shape, especially when puffed up like little marshmallows against the cold.

Green Finch- another common visitor. Very aggressive.

Goldfinch- unlike it’s US counterpart, not gifted with bright yellow plumage, but pretty nonetheless.

Chaffinch- another everyday sight. The males have a pretty salmon colored belly.

Wren- my favourite, although not often seen. In the states, we call it a Carolina Wren and it’s known for its rather quirky personality and pretty song.

You’ll be pleased to know that St. Patrick’s Day passed without a drop of beer being spilt on my clothing.

To make up for it, I was merely touched inappropriately by two strangers (a man and a woman. The woman was very intoxicated and was trying to tell me how hot the guys in the band were and instead of patting me on the shoulder, she kept hitting me in the boob.) and made to witness The Nudist taking off all his clothes, standing on stage and spanking himself for a few minutes. (This was in retaliation for my husband picking him up and dropping him on his head. How this made everything fair, I don’t know.)

Just another typical Friday night.

A new color scheme in honor of the day.

I have precisely 0% Irish heritage, so every year I look on in bemusement at the festivities surrounding St. Patrick’s Day. My forbearers were almost entirely German (Also into big drinking festivals, but at least they don’t disguise Oktoberfest as a religious holiday) and Swiss. (A few years ago we discovered a French connection, but we don’t really like to talk about that.) It seems odd that this day, an Irish Catholic saint’s day, generally reserved for overindulgence and wearing stupid hats, should fall in the middle of Lent. Although I imagine that any soul to whom this matters would have carefully avoided giving up alcohol for the season of humility.

 The Rock Star has a gig this evening, as he has had for the last 3 years. The Mis-Spelled Band has a standing St. Pat’s gig at the HogsHead in Aylesbury every year during which they play their usual set along with the one Irish song that they know, “Whisky in the Jar” by Thin Lizzy. (You’d be surprised at how many people request “500 Miles” as well, being unaware that it is actually from an album entitled “Sunshine Over Leith” by the very Scottish The Proclaimers.)

St. Patrick’s Day at the Hogshead is usually a fairly lubricated affair; being that it’s a Friday, I’m assuming that this’ll be doubly so. It would be unusual to escape the evening without a fair amount of beer ending up on my clothing, so I’ll just hope for lager rather than Guinness. Having said that, Guinness doesn’t tend to “fly” quite as well as lager when thrown good-naturedly in a drunken stupor; it tends to go “gloop”.

I’m not a huge fan of the Black Stuff, I have to admit, although I’ve been told it’s good for you. (Doctors over here actually advise pregnant women here to have a half pint every so often, just for the iron.) Plus, I’m a huge sucker for their ads; miniature works of art on which they spend millions. (The “horses in the waves” has got to be the best, followed closely on by the “dreamer” and their latest “reverse evolution” ad.) While the tar-like beverage generally tickles my gag reflex, last year, The Fraggle introduced me to Guinness and Tia Maria, which was actually quite tasty, but when I went to get a half-pint of my own, the bar had RUN OUT OF GUINNESS. ON ST. PATRICKS DAY. A small bit of forward thinking that might have gotten missed, I feel.

At any rate, wherever this day of green finds you, enjoy it with abandon and worry about everything else in the morning.

So there’s been a bit of a hoo-ha going on in the news about a drug trial in London that seems to have gone horribly wrong.

We’ve come a long way since bloodletting and leeches; pharmaceutical companies spend vast amounts on research in order to make even vaster amount pending approval from administrative bodies. All sides in this debacle are already getting all lawyered up.

Now, forgive me if I’m wrong, but human drug testing is voluntary, yes?

And these tragically incapacitated 6 healthy young men were not kidnapped in the street, strapped down to tables and injected with drugs which may or may not have caused permanent organ damage, no?

The miracle of medicine seems to have blinded us to the fact that WE DON’T ALWAYS GET IT RIGHT THE FIRST TIME. Human test subjects know the risks and sign a whole elephant’s worth of paperwork before hand to say just that. I am absolutely astounded that these 6 people, 4 of whom are not even CONSCIOUS yet, are already well on their way to landmark settlements against Parexel, the company testing the drug.

Certainly, if it turns out there WAS some wrongdoing on Parexel’s part (i.e. cover up of the fact that animal tests hadn’t been carried out properly) then these volunteers entered into an arrangement under false pretences and deserve all the protection the law has to offer. However, if this accident was simply the result of an unforeseen reaction within the human body, it seems ludicrous that these men, who signed legal documents and were paid for their time, should be able to sue the company due to their cavalier disregard for the dangers that drug testing can hold.