More self-indulgent granny photos

Grandson is put into his car seat for the first time in preparation for going home from hospital yesterday. His legs are a bit short for his suit.

He decides that he disapproves of his car seat.

Home safely, he investigates his blanket for milk-giving properties.

Then he nods off. His hat is also a bit big. Isn't it amazing that, four and a half days before, he was folded up inside Daughter 1?

Shall I compare thee...?

Would you like to have your mind boggled? Then look at this link below (sorry, can never remember how to do the wee screen thing).

The background to this is that Daughter 2's husband-to-be is an actor and improviser - he belongs to Showstopper, an amazing company which improvises musicals - words (rhyming) and music (harmonising) from audience suggestions about plot, characters, genre etc. I don't know how they do it.

And this is even more astonishing - it's one of his colleagues, Shaun, who's in Showstopper and another company called School of Night, and he's really, honestly, improvising a sonnet based on the tin hat he'd only just been shown. Daughter 2's chap was filming it. Shaun had just finished improvising a sonnet about a yellow pencil and D2's chap was filming it to upload on to YouTube, but Shaun vanished from view by sitting down just as D2's chap was zooming in, so they had to film a second one.

You'd think it was impossible; but D2 swears it was genuine improvisation. Shaun can do this any time.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ofGDRyFzJiU

It would take me a day to write a sonnet with a pencil and paper and even then I'm not convinced it would be nearly as good.

You could look at one of the Showstopper clips too, and maybe go and see them if they're performing anywhere near you. They really are good. They're mainly in the London area but are coming to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe as usual.

Our boys

Dr Son - now Dr Uncle - came down from Perth to meet his new nephew this evening. Grandson tried out his finger but didn't manage to extract any milk from it.

Our boys admire each other.

A nice cuddle. Sorry for Son's unshaven chin*.

They bonded.

* The chin is a result of his working horrendously long hours as a hospital doctor, currently 12 days on the trot, without much time to eat/sleep, let alone shave. Also he's very dark, with a dark beard. But he did shave later that evening.

Welcome to day 2 of your life

Thank you so much for your baby congratulations. Here are my mum (89 years 2 months) and our grandson (12 and a half hours). Awww!

I always thought - up till now - that the sort of birth announcement that sometimes appears in the newspaper along the lines of "Mother and baby fine, father recovering" was ridiculous. Giving birth is, after all, hard work. Watching must be a doddle.

I no longer hold this view. Of course, giving birth is indeed hard work - labour - but being stressed about one's child giving birth is pretty draining too, pathetic as (I'm well aware) this sounds. I've been the one standing by to take Daughter 1 to hospital (Daughter 1 and SIL don't have a car) and because the modern thing is not to let you into hospital till the point at which your relatives are convinced that the new arrival is going to tumble out on to the carpet, I was at their house all day while she appeared to be quite far on in the process - but just not quite there yet. And her (lovely) parents-in-law had jumped in the car and driven up the 300 plus miles from Worcester to see the baby, arriving (because of the baby's reluctance to get on with it) some hours before the departure to hospital. So the whole thing was a mixture of a nice family party and the most nervewracking event in my life so far. (Yes, obviously it's all about me...)

I'm quite surprised at how I feel about this little person. I was slightly worried that, as a baby fanatic, my instinct would be to take him over, since he would clearly be my baby... I can so well remember thinking that no one could possibly look after my own babies as well as I could. But in fact, to my relief, I don't feel that at all. He's absolutely lovely, cute as a whole packet of buttons, a miracle of completeness (you should see his perfect little ears!!) and I would die for him without a second thought, but I quite understand that he's theirs, not mine.

Still, Daughter 1, though delighted with her tiny son, is tired, and the son, like tiny tyrants everywhere, kept her awake for quite a long time last night. I wish I could be there to help her but she's still in hospital because he's not feeding terribly well yet. He will. But he's tired with all that getting born stuff and then the yelling in the middle of the night. (His yelling, not hers.)

I can't quite believe that it was only yesterday that he was born! And the other nice thing that happened yesterday is that Ali Honey of Quilting Orchardist, and her husband R, were in town and came down for a glass of wine and a chat in the evening after our visit to the new little family in hospital. Which was lovely. What a day!

It's funny - it's just occurred to me that you can't really say to non-family members that your own baby is beautiful (though obviously you think he/she is). But somehow you can say it about your grandchild. Why is this exactly? It's fun!

New arrival

Grandson arrived at 1.27 am on July 17 2011.

Isn't he beautiful?

Grandad Life.

We're all exhausted. But happy.

Not relaxing

Well, I must say I'm finding this retirement lark surprisingly exhausting. For the past... oh... two years I've been saying to myself: well, I'll leave that [some un-urgent and time-consuming task] till I retire. And now here I am.

So far - among many other things - I've: taken my mother to the doctor 3 times, visited South Queensferry with Mr Life, gone to the dentist, interviewed two letting agents on behalf of Daughter 2, partly tidied the study, cleared out my vase/flowerpot cupboard, taken a whole lot of stuff to a charity shop, spent a whole day in my mother's garden doing a major tidy, taken my mum to a drinks do in a distant part of Edinburgh, brought her back again, fed the family at various times, gone to an exhibition with Daughter 1, cleaned the fridge (I don't want you to think that this is the first time I've done this in 2 years, mind you - similarly the dentist), brought Daughter 1 here to make my blog prettier, weedkillered our and my mother's paths... and stuff like that.

Not very thrilling, but it needed to be done. And there's lots more.

Also what I've been doing, though, is fretting about this baby. I'm ageing visibly. Look, there's another grey hair. Here comes a wrinkle. Goodness me, the stress!

Sirius, meanwhile, has been having a bit of a snooze.

Waiting for the baby

Thank you for those helpful flat-letting comments. We're considering them all.

Well, has Daughter 1's baby arrived yet? Hmm. Not as such. Here she is, this afternoon, sitting in our garden finishing his blanket. We're hoping that the reason for his lateness is that Baby is an intelligent chap and realises that, though the knitting is finished, with this particular design there are lots and lots of endy bits to weave in before the whole thing is actually, finally, totally ready.

No, there are still some endy bits that don't show up in this photo. Indeed, she went home with some endy bits still in evidence.

However, after that...

Meanwhile, it's a nice sunny day and my tuberous begonia is doing well.

As is this fuchsia.

And Cassie's not bothered.

As you may guess, it's Daughter 1 who has changed the design of my blog, since I am a weak and cowardly - not to say incompetent - person. Thank you , Daughter 1. It does somewhat give the impression that it's all about the cats' lives, but... well, that's not so far wrong.

Now: maybe tomorrow?

Anyone know about letting flats?

This is a bit of a long shot but it suddenly occurred to me that some bloggy people might possibly be able to give us some advice. I wonder if anyone reading this has experience of letting a flat in Scotland?

Our beloved Daughter 2 is now, much to our sorrow, living in London. She lost her Edinburgh job (in architecture - the building trade is in great difficulties) and managed to get one in London, and is also about to marry her chap, who's trying to make it as an actor in London. As you can imagine, they're rather short of money. She has a salary; he doesn't. She needs to rent out her Edinburgh flat in order to pay its mortgage.

On her behalf, I've recently interviewed two letting agents. Each has a slightly different system of charges for the various parts of its services, but these come to much the same in the end, ie they charge for finding a tenant and then take really quite a lot of her money (15% of the rent, plus VAT) for acting as the point of contact for repairs etc. There shouldn't be that many repairs in the flat, which is newly decorated and only twentyish years old.

Alternatively, both agents would simply find a tenant and then leave it to us (one of them would provide the lease as well) but both charge quite steeply for this - presumably to discourage one from taking this option.

And I'm wondering whether we dare sidestep the agents and just do it ourselves.

However, being cautious people, we're uncertain about this - not so much the maintenance of repairs and so on, but the legal side of it: the lease, the credit checks, the salary checks and so on. And getting tenants out at the end of the lease, if necessary. On the other hand, now I'm retired, with more free time, it seems a bit daft to hand over all that money. She's paying far more for her (one-bedroom, rented) flat in London than she'll get for her two-bedroom flat here, even if she got all of the rental money.

Does anyone out there have experience of letting in Scotland? - do you use a letting agent, and if so who, and if not - well, what do you think? I would be really grateful for any advice.

I can't tell you how horrible it is to go down to her flat and see it empty - well, it's not empty; it has the furniture. But empty of her stuff.

Flaming July

British people always regard themselves as being obsessed with the weather. I don't know whether we really are - after all, we don't often get extreme weather that threatens safety. Quite the opposite - it's often coolish or warmish or wettish or dryish. But it's not predictable. You can't plan on having a party or wedding outside. It might be nice. Or it might not.

Yesterday, for example, it was a bit drippy in the morning but in the afternoon the sun shone. You couldn't call it exactly hot, but as Mr Life and I walked home, westwards, from town, it was almost dazzling and he was a bit warm in his jacket.

Today it's dull and rather chilly. One's fingers think nostalgically of gloves and one's nose is slighly nipped. I went to the Co-op and the lady in front of me in the queue said to the lady behind the counter: "D'you think that's the summer over now?"

She nodded gloomily. "And I can't remember which day it fell on."

PS Now, in the afternoon, it's sunny and I've been sitting in the garden. With my cardigan on, mind you. But the washing's drying nicely on the line.

Where the heart lies

I was watching "Gardeners' World" the other day. A very posh lady was showing the presenter, Joe Swift, round her lovely garden in Somerset. They ended the tour at the opposite end of the (enormous) lawn from her (enormous) house. She was telling him how much she loved her planters - and they stopped beside an (enormous) stone urn overflowing with flowering plants.

"And this is the most important one," she said, "because when I die, my heart's going to be buried in it."

I don't know whether he's just a good actor - Joe Swift is, after all, the son of the actor Clive Swift and the novelist Margaret Drabble - but his eyes widened in apparent shock. (Huh? Yuck!)

You really have to imagine the lady's exceedingly posh, drawling, English accent. She went on, "I've asked the butcher" (oh no!) "but he won't do it." (Pronounced "wayoooon't dooooo it".)

She gave the teeniest of posh, you-can't-rely-on-the-working-classes shrugs. "So my son will do it."

A guest post from Cassie

Today has NOT been a good one. In the morning, our servants wouldn't let us out into the garden after they came to release us from our nightly imprisonment in the kitchen. We ALWAYS go out into the garden first thing. We were Suspicious.

After a while, they came with cages. Padded cages, certainly - but cages. The smalller servant picked me up. I squirmed and squeaked and waved my arms and legs, making myself as spread-out as possible. The larger servant came and - well, the word might be crammed - crammed me into the cage. Cheek! By this time, Sirius - who isn't the sharpest cat in the world but isn't a complete fool - was under the table. The larger servant went and rudely grabbed him. Sirius doesn't have my spirit. He submitted to being shoved - cramming was not necessary - into his cage.

Off we all went in the car. I squeaked most of the way, making myself sound as pathetic as I could. I know how to administer the emotional blackmail. Sirius yowled all the way. He's a wimp.

At the Nasty Man's place, we got examined by the Man. Sirius got praised - "perfect" was the word used of him. He hadn't put on any weight (which is entirely unfair because he stuffs his face at every opportunity) and is in excellent health. Then he got stuck with a needle and seemed relieved to get back into his cage. The Man then turned his attention to me and said that I had put on weight! Huh. He did admit that I wasn't fat, though. As if! I'm simply very fluffy. Then I got stuck with a needle.

At last we got home again and we both bolted out into the garden and stayed there. We might have considered coming back to enjoy a well-deserved rest on the sofa but the larger servant started noisily sawing up bits of wood in the kitchen (covering it with sawdust - the smaller servant wasn't totally thrilled either but the large one said it might rain so he didn't want to do it outside).

Eventually he finished making the big noise but by then we were totally offended and had decided to teach them a lesson and hide outside. It was quite nice and sunny outside so it suited us quite well anyway.

But then: all that horrible bangy flashy stuff started up in the sky and it began to rain VERY HARD. Again! The smaller servant has put these photos up on my blog - they may look like yesterday's but in fact the flowerbeds were even fuller of water this time.

We do not approve.

Sirius, who doesn't have my moral fibre, caved in and went back inside when the servants called but I stayed out for a long time. I became very wet. But I think I made my point.

Look, there's the smaller servant waving to you in the puddle after the sun came out again. That really is a very short haircut she got last time. Her hairdresser has a mind of her own - just like me.

By the way, there's another thing: every time the phone rings, she leaps towards it as if she was expecting some news. But so far, there doesn't seem to be anything special happening. We don't like new things. I'm not sure that this bodes well...

Rain rain rain

I was on the point of going to the supermarket when it suddenly started to thunder and pour: the sort of weather that we don't normally get in Scotland. We get rain, yes, but usually soft damp mists of it or random slashes driven by the wind, not these cataracts thumping down in straight lines from the clouds.

Sirius Cat was in the living room with me and was very disturbed by all the bangs and flashes. Somehow the idea of going in the car lost its appeal. "Appeal" - going to the supermarket? Though in fact I should be very grateful that I can do so: go and buy food any time, unlike those poor refugees in Africa.

So I watched the rain. It doesn't look as impressive in the photos as it looked in reality. The rain flooded the flowerbed a few feet from me, threatening to overflow and - surely it couldn't come into the house? See how it's level with the path; the bed is several inches below it, normally.


I was worried about Cassie, who was nowhere to be seen, so I called for her at the front and the back doors; no sign. Then I went back into the living room and she suddenly shot out from behind the sofa and bolted for Daughter 2's room.

There's the rain bouncing on the road, with a mysterious UFO hovering in the driveway. The rain must be the Martians' fault, then...

Both cats are now beneath Daughter 2's bed. The Martians won't get you there, fluffy ones.

And now the sky is brightening so I suppose I have no excuse not to go and gather some supplies for us and my mother. (No one has come to view her flat for over two weeks. Deep gloom. Curses on those bankers.)

Phoning the authorities

I'm putting in the time here while trying to persuade the authorities to take back my late aunt's wheelchair and wheeled walker thing. I keep being fobbed off by people who say that I've been put through to the wrong place, and would I like the direct number for the right place?

And then that number's engaged, and eventually I get through and they say that they're not the right place; would I like the direct number for the right place?

Anyway, on Monday Mr Life took the day off and we went to South Queensferry, a small town very near here. There it is, above. I was trying out my new camera.

This is the Forth Rail Bridge. On the other side of the estuary is the county - or as it likes to call itself, the Kingdom - of Fife. (Ring, ring. Number engaged.)

Looking the other way, this is the Forth Road Bridge. (Ring, ring.. no answer...)

We had a cup of coffee. (Wrong place again. Try another number.)

This was our view while drinking the coffee. (Ah! Hurray! Someone who admits to owning the wheelchair and will come and collect it!)

We strolled along the pier. This is the sort of thing that retired people do, I believe.

Ah! Hurray! Someone who admits to owning the wheeled walker and will come and collect it!

Now I can go and do a bit of dusting. Or I might just have a tiny look at some blogs...

Gifts

Happy Independence Day, United States. As ever, I imagine you've been celebrating my birthday with fireworks and barbecues. Hope you had fun.

Above are the lovely flowers that my department gave me on my (have I mentioned this before, Fran?) last day of work.

On the same day, this wonderful array of gifts for Unborn Grandson arrived from Dianne of A Month of Sundays - http://whatisstarbucking.blogspot.com/ - who with amazing generosity sent them all the way from Colorado. All hand-made and beautiful. She had created them, and a pink set, for her potential grandson/granddaughter, who turned out to be the most beautiful granddaughter. So these things in "boy"colours have come to Daughter 1. Aren't bloggy people so kind?

Here is Daughter 1 admiring the shawl, or as Dianne calls it, afghan.

And the lovely quilt.

Son-in-law models the cute hat.

Where are we in these pictures? We're having afternoon tea in the Roxburghe Hotel in Charlotte Street. Do we do this a lot? No. This is the view from the window beside our table.

When I was a girl, I went to school near this hotel and used to pass it every day on my way to a long, boring bus journey home. As I trudged past, hungry and tired (cue violins...) I used to see ladies sitting by the window having afternoon tea. And I thought: when I grow up I'm going have nothing to do but to sit there doing that.

And of course it never happened. Until Saturday, when Daughter 2, home for the weekend from London, had summoned the troops to foregather there to celebrate (slightly early) my 59bth birthday.

Another view out of the window, on to Charlotte Square with its Georgian architecture. This is part of Edinburgh's New Town ("new" as in built between 1760 and 1830).

The square has gardens in the centre. Look! Sunshine! It was actually quite hot.

Here's Daughter 2 with my mum.

And with her dad.

Son and his beloved.

Daughter 1 with hers. Grandson is due in two days now! I wonder if anyone's told him.

The afternoon tea was rather good. Not perhaps healthy. But delicious.

We managed to eat an impressive amount of it - though did have to admit defeat eventually. However, not before Son had popped a final, thumb-sized éclair into his mouth. "It's just like eating a big vitamin pill," he declared.

Thank you so much, family - and particularly to the world's greatest organiser of celebrations, darling Daughter 2. Now, alas, she has returned to London with a dose of tonsillitis. I do hope she feels better soon.

Endings and beginnings

It was a nice sunny day as I walked from the car park towards the main building, glancing across at the sports department.

Up the steps and through the revolving doors for my last day at work.

Up the stairs.

The door of the workroom, with my name on it, among those of my colleagues. Later in the day, I made a new notice, without my name, for the first day back in August.

Some of the stuff on the filing cabinets is mine, mid-clear. Most of it isn't.

Here's my desk, almost ready for me to leave it. My colleague is going to have it next semester because it's beside the window.

She's in Zambia at the moment, on the Book Bus. Do check out her blog - http://deborah-buscatcher.blogspot.com/

Then my colleagues and I came home and had lunch here.

And now I'm retired. Gosh.