… and why did nobody tell me?

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Clothes are all ready; backpack has been packed for days. Supplies have been checked and double checked and triple checked and, Oh you know what its like.
Then my questions to him,
“Have you got…?” “Yes mum”.
“Have you packed…?” “Yes mum”.

I am so nervous and so is he although he won’t admit it these days but I can tell by those beautiful eyes that I now have to stand on my tippy toes to look into.

The word is excited.

Last night his friend came, I am so pleased that he has a travelling companion. The talk was buzzing,
“What time shall we set our alarms for?”
“What time shall we go to bed?”
“Have we got…?” and “Do you think we should…?” “Yes Mike and No Mike.”
“Are you taking…?” and “Have you packed…?” “Yes Ben and Yes Ben”.

When Ben was little he ‘occasionally’ drove me nuts with his questions. I used to say “Yes Ben yes Ben yes Ben yes Ben” very very quickly until he laughed.

Over our evening meal in the garden; BBQ, his favourite, we tried hard to talk of other things but it was futile. This is too big, they are too excited.

It was an early night for us all. Paul & I are no longer able to take that much excitement! I woke every hour, checking the clock to make sure I hadn’t overslept. I didn’t, I was there.

In my kitchen are two young men, dressed and ready to go.
Too excited for breakfast
Check the bags again.
I check the flash on my camera, I can’t remember the last time I used it.

It is 4.00am, still dark in our world. I am in my nightie, in the road, camera around my neck.

It never stops: the worry, the concern, and the nervousness. The circumstances change, the subject of a mothers worry, a constant series of new stages.
Crawling, toddling, walking and falling.
Falling off the slide, the swing and the bike.
Playschool, big school then college.
Friends, public transport, clubbing and drinking.
University, course work, girlfriends and exams.
Driving, working, and travelling.
The Motorbike! and now
The Trip Abroad on the new, bigger, faster motorbike.

2 Blokes, 2 Bikes, 8 Days

When did my baby, my beautiful brown eyed boy become a bloke?
And why did nobody tell me?

Like Knitting in the Sky

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There was an air display in our coastal town this week.
The weather was spectacular for it. Dry, at last! Hot as a hot place and wonderful clear blue skies, hooray!
Most of the population of the UK was either in our town or trying to get into our town.
(Visitor numbers courtesy of my husband)

Sitting on the sea wall next to us was a lovely couple with a young family. The boy was about six years old and the girl, about five. She was dressed in pink, from top to toe, as pretty a picture.
Oh, OK, in case the equality police are reading, the boy was in khaki shorts and a tea shirt with writing on, looking… just like a boy. (Happy?)

The Red Arrows were the highlight of the afternoon and gave us a stunning display with their usual effortless precision.
When they whizz off into the middle distance between manoeuvres, where do they go?
Well they completely wowed us all, except the young boy.
He was completely disappointed that they didn’t fire any guns or drop any bombs in our sea!
The little girl on the other hand was enthralled with their smoke trails. She thought they looked just like knitting in the sky.

Brought to you by Sian, she that is High in the Sky and her wonderful Story Telling Sunday.

Photo Art Friday

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Bonnies challenge this week is to link an image that ‘features a door/s’
This is one of the beautiful Sand Sculptures on our beach last year.

I haven’t been able to see this years yet. A dry day + a day off has not happened yet!

There are some interesting doors over here this week.

Photo Art Friday

Thank You!

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I have been very touched by so many messages while I have been away, thank you! You are lovely x

How to get back to blogging then? Believe me I have thought of so many ways over the last few weeks but confidence alluded me.

Then the rain stopped and the sun came out and I decided to begin as though I had never stopped. How does that sound?

The only plants surviving in my garden are the nettles and the bindweed. The rain has spoilt my roses just the same as everyone’s, except “The Fairy”. She just keeps blossoming and blooming and protecting the now giant nettles that wind their way up through her thorny branches.
I have given up fighting them and decided to photograph them instead.

I love learning new things, do you? here’s some things I didn’t know about stinging nettles:

The British species of stinging nettle, belongs to the genus Urtica from the Latin, uro, to burn.

It is a strange fact that the juice of the nettle proves an antidote for its own sting, and being applied will bring instant relief: as does the juice of the dock, which is usually found in close proximity to the nettle but you must slowly repeat this charm:

‘Nettle in, dock out.
Dock rub nettle out!’

(Oooh I love spells!)

Rubbing the part of you that is stinging, with rosemary, mint or sage leaves may also cure the sting of a nettle. That sounds much nicer than dock in my opinion. Although you can’t beat a good jump up and down shouting about not wearing gloves and other such things!

In Britain more than thirty insects feed solely on the nettle but flies don’t like the plant, and a fresh bunch of stinging nettles will keep a larder free from them.

Do let me know if you try this! It is the sort of thing that Mother-in-law would try, where as, even if I had a pantry I would sting myself reaching to get something!

I am adding my picture to The Dictionary of Image over on Flickr. Take a look if you have a moment. There are some great pictorial definitions to look at. I have also linked to Texture Tuesday today over at Kim Klassen’s Café

How’s your garden surviving?

About Stinging Nettles