Tip-toeing through a minefield of boots.

Image from Nina Proudman Fashion on Facebook

Let me start by saying I enjoy the Channel Ten series Offspring and I particularly appreciate many of the fashion choices selected for the character of Nina Proudman (played rather delightfully by Asher Keddie, and seen in the above image). If you haven't ever watched an episode of Offspring then you would be unaware of Nina's favoured choice of footwear. Often a knee high leather boot, worn either with floaty and feminine dresses or over denim. And I think it looks great.

Nina's influence aside, for some time I have been toying with the idea of purchasing a lovely pair of leather boots and with the bright red flashes of Sale signs dancing before my eyes, the other day I finally took the plunge.

Now to be perfectly honest, it was not love at first sight. I liked the heel height (I'm sorry, what are you saying Dr Chiropractor? Heels....bad....*sticks fingers in ears and sings la la la*), I liked the boot height (just below the knee), and I liked the colour (a neutral stone/grey) but there was some runching. Hmmm, runching...80s flashback anyone? But lo and behold, runching on the shelf appears far less...er....runchy...on the leg, and so it was that the boots, in their kiddie playhouse sized box, came home with me. And I was happy.

But the very next day, as I slid my lovely new boots on over my jeans and took a moment to appreciate how the colour perfectly complimented the dress-style top I was wearing, The Coach walked into the bedroom, stopped dead in his tracks and said the unthinkable,

"Oh my God, you are wearing come f*** me boots."

I don't mind telling you I was mortified. Here was I feeling all stylish and Nina-esque but with ten words The Coach had me doubting any style cred I thought I may have had. Of course I was very quick to rebut his words and assure him that he was completely delusional and these boots in no way, shape or form resembled cfm boots. But he was adamant, and for all my false bravado, the second he was gone I was madly searching on the Internet for a definition of such boots, fearing I had made a terrible error in judgment.

After multiple Google searches and consultation with my wise and fashionable Tweeps on Twitter (especially the All Shoe Knowing Goddess @Gabfran), I have breathed a huge sigh of relief in the knowledge that my boots are simply stylish and I have nothing to worry about. The Coach clearly needs to get out more or start watching Offspring.

However what I did discover in the course of my investigations, was that there is no clear definition of the cfm boot. But if you are in any doubt, double check your intended purchase against the two images below and if your boots resemble either of these, I think you may be close to crossing over to the dark side.

Just forget about it...really...


If you are going to a fancy dress party as a hooker then yes, by all means.

If they look like this, then you get a green light to proceed with your purchase because these are lovely, stylish and classic (or so I have been told)

The Snoring Man.

I am quite certain that I did not marry a Snoring Man. If I go back through my files, candidate 77365 (now affectionately known as The Coach), most definitely does not have a tick in the box marked Snorer. I was vigilant with my pre-marital research. No snorers for me, no no.

But somehow, somewhere along the shifting sands of time, my non-snorer husband has (rather sneakily I feel) become The Snoring Man. How and when this occurred is somewhat of a mystery, but now I find myself tossing and turning restlessly whilst glancing at the red glow of the AWA's digital display which likes to inform me that it is now 11.30pm, now 12.05am, now 2.15am, now 3.24am...arghhh, cursed red glowing numbers.

As the hustle and bustle of the day passes and the quiet darkness of the night settles upon us, a funny thing happens. The daytime Waffles who loves a silly joke and a spot of reality tv (hang on kids, I just need to check the caramelization of the meat before I can plate up and check that I have my thirty-seven components in place) is replaced with The Snorers Wife. Now I'm sure that The Snorers Wife would appreciate a good joke over a glass of red if she weren't so damn tired. The Snorers Wife is a woman who would just about kill for a good nights sleep.

Now we mustn't confuse The Snorers Wife with The Baby Mumma. If you were to walk around the shopping centre in the bright glow of the early morning sunshine, the two may be hard to distinguish. Sticky up, slightly wonky hairdos. Dazed expressions. Bloodshot puffy eyes peering out above dark smudged crescents. Triple-shot lattes. Mismatched clothing. Oh yes, hard to tell them apart all right, but if you look hard enough you will spot the clue, one will actually have a baby. The other, a slightly disconcerting glint in their eye.

The Snorers Wife has limited compassion. In the early stages of slumber, she will gently nudge The Snoring Man, prompting him to turn over. As the hours pass, the gentle nudges are replaced with gentle knocks which eventually give way to a sharp elbow in the ribs and an agitated
"Lie on your side and stop bloody snoring."

The Snorers Wife will lie in the darkness and wonder if perhaps the couch may not be a better option, sure she'll be cold and wake up with a crink in her neck which will require fifty or more visits to the chiropractor to sort out, but really, what price does one put on a good nights sleep ?

I wish there were a happy ending to this post. A miracle cure for The Snoring Man so that The Snorers Wife could be left happily in the land of nod where she belongs. But there isn't. I am still The Snorers Wife and The Snoring Man shall be back this evening. Perhaps I should go and have a wee siesta whilst the sun is high and The Snoring Man is a slightly hazy memory.

Are you a Snorers Wife ? If you have a solution for coping with A Snoring Man please feel free to share it. The Snorers Wife, The Coach's ribs and I would be forever in your debt.

The TV Week Photo.

Just for Stomper Girl, here is the photo from TV Week, with further proof that I was only one spray can away from becoming a serial train tagger and that a private education teaches you nothing, if not goodly spelling.

Meet Waffles, aged 16 and 3/4.

I am going to go out on a limb here and say that I think many blog writers were once Journal and Diary authors. It is in our very nature to jot down notes and write about the ideas that are bouncing around in our overactive brains and short of spending six hours on the phone at the end of the school day, I think many of us felt the need to continue our purge in written form.

I'm not certain how old I was when I first started keeping a Diary, but I have one in the top of my cupboard from when I was fifteen and they continue through until I was twenty, although as the years progress, the entries become more sporadic. Clearly I was too busy talking the ears off all my friends and boyfriends to put pen to paper, boy, weren't they the lucky ones.

I thought it might be fun to share a diary entry from when I was sixteen. Sweet sixteen *sigh* ha, I think my mother would argue that I was growing hormonal horns at that age, and re-reading my old Diaries, I think I am inclined to agree. Crikey, what a hotpot of turmoil, boys and teenage angst..oh..and boys ? Did I mention boys ? Yikes.

Anyway, for your enjoyment, please meet Waffles, aged 16 and 3/4 -

Monday 27th June 1988

Dear D,

OMIGOD, soooo much has happened since I last wrote. GAM, where to begin, that's that prob.....Well, last week Johnny Depp was in Melbourne & he went on Hey Hey It's Saturday and...well....S managed to get 3 tickets for Hey Hey though CONNECTIONS :). 1 for G, 1 for C and one for moi, well, G was sic so Butler Woman came & we saw Hey Hey, then when we came out, we found out JD was still there, so...along with about 40 other girls we waited for him & he came out and was signing autographs & stuff, but he went back in before I could get his autograph, well, C had to go at 4.30, but Butler and I along with about 4 year 10 St.C girls, who were reely nice :), till 6, oh and about 7 other dicky bogans came back, and Daryl Sommers went and got JD for us and & got his autograph and spoke to him & (shock, horror, gasp) shook his hand.

wow

He was reely sweet. I heart JD 4 Eva.

Of course beside the above diary entry are about seven magazine pictures of Johnny Depp, including one from TV Week which shows him signing autographs after Hey Hey with a sea of teenage faces mushed up against the wire fence (and I have proudly drawn an arrow at one of the blurry mushed faces and written 'that's me'). Oh the sweet memories.

Were you a diary keeper ? Do you ever still pull out the old journals and have a laugh at your crazy teenage antics ? I am sure that having these snippets of myself as a teenager will help me when I am trying to rationalise the behaviour of my own children when they hit those formidable years....well....one has to cling to something...

Morphing into The Griswolds - The Conclusion

It is surprisingly difficult to launch a recovery mission when you are travelling in a car, you are almost two hours away from your place of residence, your broken car is in one location, the keys to the broken car are in yet another location and you are trying to accommodate an elderly relative from interstate and two young children.

As you might well imagine, The Coach and I were busy racking our brains for a solution. Our usual first port of call for a broken down vehicle, the RACQ, generally assumes that you and your broken down vehicle are in the same place. Clearly our circumstances fell into the unusual category. We made a list of local friends who owed us favours (0). We made another list of friends we could potentially bribe with the lure of alcohol and/or chocolate (many). We tried contacting the first of our friends on our Bribe List and discovered (most inconveniently) that Wilderness Man, who also happens to be an airline mechanic (plane, car, much of a muchness right ?) had chosen that very morning to take off for a three day fishing and camping trip. Bummer.

It was only as The Coach declared for the sixty-seventh time that he was turning the car around, that I realised fortune was favouring us with a small break. Only one week earlier I had employed the services of a local mobile mechanic to service my car and I suddenly noticed his sticker in the top right corner of my windscreen, with a mobile phone number listed, hallelujah.

Calls were made....many calls....but by the time we arrived in Noosa, plans had been set in motion and we were reasonably confident that everything would turn out okay. Yes, the kids managed to score two days off school whilst the car was getting repaired. Yes, we now had an unexpected extra expense tapped on to the cost of our holiday. But it was a small price to pay.

As we walked into the local pizzeria that evening I discovered that our luck had indeed changed. Mojito night. Bonus. Nothing better then a mojito or five to take your mind off car issues. I embraced holiday mode with such gusto that three hours later I was embracing the toilet bowl after having fertilised the manicured gardens of Noosa with my own special blend of pizza and white rum. It's klarsy with a capital 'K' when you take a bit of Gold Coast magic to Noosa let me tell you.

The next afternoon, after I had managed the enormous trek from the bed to the couch, I decided to check in with Nanny B. Le Artiste answered the phone,

"Hi mum, are you having a nice holiday ?"
"Yes thank-you darling, but we're not talking in tin cans linked by string, if you could yell a little quieter, that would be great. How are things at home ?"
"Good. We're having two days off school and Nanny just finished talking to the policeman about dad's car."
(Oh dear God)
"The policeman ?"
"Yes, the policeman called because people thought that dad's car had been stolen and left in the middle of the road."
(I think I'm ready for another mojito)
"But Nanny sorted it all out."
"Yep, she told him the whole story....oh Nanny...."
"Oh no, what's happened now ?"
*sigh* "Oh dear mum, Nanny just tried to put water in the wrong end of the iron and it's gone all over the kitchen."
"Well I'll let you go and help Nanny out darling. I'll call you again later."
"Okay, bye mum."

"Coach, grab your wallet, I need another ten mojitos stat."

Morphing into The Griswolds - Part Three

The following conversation was recorded between the hours of 2.30 and 3.30pm on Wednesday 30th of March 2011 :

Waffles (W) : (humming happily and ignoring the torrential downpour) Are you feeling relaxed yet Coach ? Yay, we're on holidays. I might just give your mum a quick call and make sure she found the school okay.
The Coach (TC) : (jaw clenched, hunched over steering wheel) Yeah. Great. Very relaxed.
Phone : Ring Ring (a little blast from the past for those of you over the age of thirty-five)
Nanny B (NB) : Hellloooooo
W : (with an inaudible sigh of relief) Oh hi Nanny B, just wanted to check that you didn't get lost on that one road between our house and the school.
NB : Oh hello darling, no no, I didn't get lost but I'm glad you called....now I don't want you to worry but.....
W : (holding breath) *Uh oh*
NB : ....there's been a little bit of a problem....
W : (still holding breath, turning a light shade of red)
NB : ...with the car...
W : (still holding breath, turning a light shade of purple)
NB : It stopped.
TC : Waffles, why are you turning blue ? What's mum saying ?
W : (taking a huge gulp of air to avoid passing out) What exactly do you mean by stopped ?
TC : What stopped ?
NB : Well...it just sort of stopped...
TC : WHAT STOPPED ?
W : Aahh, do you mean stopped at the school when you turned it off ?
TC : (knuckles turning white on the steering wheel) You're kidding, the car.
NB : Well no...I got about half way to school..and it was making this terrible noise...and there was this awful burning smell....and then it just wouldn't go anymore..but I managed to get it into reverse.....and I got it off the road..mostly...then it stopped altogether.
TC : I'm turning around.
W : No no hon, keep going...we've already been driving for an hour and a half..
NB : Oh don't come back. We're fine..
W : Oh, the kids, have you got the kids ?
NB : Oh yes, I was going to walk the rest of the way...
W : (blanching at the thought of the kids making the hour long trek home in the rain)
NB : But then I though, that's just plain silly, so I knocked on the door of a house..
W : Whose house ?
NB : Oh I can't remember her name. Lovely lady though. She was just about to leave to go to work and she helped me get the keys out of the ignition..
W : You left the key in the ignition ?
TC : I'm turning around right now.
NB : Well they got stuck. But she got them out. So we locked the car and she drove me to school and we picked up the kids and then she drove us home.
W : So the car is locked..half on the side of the road...half way to school....and you have the keys...and are back at home ? (trying to avoid looking at The Coach and the surprisingly large vein that appears to be throbbing in his temple).
TC : I'm turning around.
NB : Yes. But don't worry about us, we'll be fine. Enjoy your holiday. Relax. Now who do I call ?
W : *with a small sigh* Nanny B, I think I'll have to call you back.
NB : (Cheerily) Okay darling, speak to you soon.

To be continued....

Morphing into the Griswolds - Part Two

My way of dealing with the general state of chaos that life throws at you is to make plans and lists. I loooove lists, especially with tick boxes, tick boxes are great. Prior to Nanny B's arrival plans were made to deal with my growing anxiety over the dodgy car hand over :

PLAN A - Get car serviced and have loose clutch cable tightened.

Foiled by : The Coach could still hear his radio thus the expense and inconvenience of a service was deemed an unnecessary indulgence of my paranoia.

PLAN B - The Coach would take Nanny B on the morning school run which would aid her with directions and prove an invaluable test run allowing us enough time to procure an emergency hire car, if required.

Foiled by : A last minute business meeting which The Coach had to attend on the morning of our departure.

PLAN C - I would take Nanny B on the morning school run which would aid her with directions.

Foiled by : Nanny B loves a chat...I mean really loves a chat, and she forgets to pay attention to directions when involved in a good chat.

PLAN D - The Coach would take Nanny B for a quick drive around the block approximately 2 minutes before she had to depart on the afternoon school run.

Foiled by : Business meeting running overtime. Us running late on our departure time and Nanny B stating confidently "Don't worry darling, I'll be fine."

I won't lie to you, as I stood on our balcony watching The Coach's butt hanging out of the passenger front window as he attempted to take the hand break off for Nanny B, my fears were not allayed. As I took in the light fog rolling into the valley and the dark clouds looming overhead, heavy with the threat of rain, I was thinking, this is not good, not good at all. And as The Coach joined me on the balcony and we waved Nanny B off and an altogether new and ominous sounding grating noise filled the air, I shook my head, turned to my husband and said "I have a really bad feeling about this."

To be continued.....

Morphing into The Griswolds - Part One

Although my last blog post may have appeared to be nothing more then a blatant attempt to get Nissan to loan me a new Murano for twelve months, it actually had another far greater purpose. That was to provide you with a small insight into the differences between my car and The Coach's car. I must admit, I went a little off track when I started daydreaming about a new Murano, but the main point was to help you to understand that while my car receives regular..ish services, water and oil top ups, and even the odd wash, The Coach's car is surviving on a lean diet of neglect.

Sure it gets a clean out perhaps once every twelve months, which interestingly seems to coincide with a relative coming to visit, a relative who The Coach has to collect from the airport. It also receives the odd service, usually around the time that The Coach can no longer hear his talk back radio program over the cars determined protests which present as various grinding and squealing noises. Quite frankly, if that car was Kitt from Knight Rider, I imagine that it would have quite a mouthful of expletives that it would like to share with The Coach before self activating the eject button and launching The Coach through the sun roof.

This brings me to the clutch cable episode. Actually it wasn't so much an episode but more of a trailer. The clutch cable broke and The Coach was forced, no doubt muttering expletives of his own, to take the car to the mechanic to get it repaired. Seems pretty straight forward no ?

Now see, this is where The Coach and I really become polar opposites. The Coach returned home in the evening and I asked how the car was.

"I'm not happy with it," he replied "The clutch cable is too loose and it doesn't feel right."

"So why didn't you tell the mechanic?" I responded curiously.

"Something about the cost of pygmy hippos and the growth cycles of turnips." he answered. Well at least that's what I think he said, as he was sort of muttering and walking into the bathroom shaking his head.

And that is how it came to pass that for the last twelve months The Coach has been driving around in a car with a touchy, loose clutch cable. He is now used to the quirky clutch. He has also mastered the art of peering around the crack in the windscreen. He ignores the rattle and crunch that occurs every time he steers around a corner and he is virtually oblivious to the dings in the front, sides, back and roof (yes, we are all rather mystified by the ding in the roof).

Then recently we decided, after thirteen long years, to take a holiday to Noosa. We would require the use of my car. My Mother-in-Law, Nanny B, was going to need a car to ferry the kids to school in our absence, and although I was almost blinded by the neon warning signs flashing before my eyes, I succumbed to The Coach when he insisted,

"Don't worry about mum. She'll be fine using my car."

Oh ho ho, famous last words.....to be continued......

The Car.

I am a car person. I wouldn't go as far as saying that I am a Rev Head, but I appreciate nice cars, I like sitting in nice cars, I notice nice cars and I daydream about one day owning a nice car. The Coach however views cars as a means from getting from Point A to Point B. He doesn't notice that his dream car has just passed us doing 210 kilometres per hour on the M1. He doesn't sigh wistfully when a commercial for a nice car comes on the telly and he doesn't seem particularly fussed about watching Top Gear. I know right, I am married to a freak of nature.

Although our opinions on cars vary drastically, we do have one thing in common, and that is that we like Nissans. I am driving my third Nissan Pulsar and The Coach is also driving a Nissan Pulsar, we are the Pulsar Poster Family. Sadly though, Nissan decided to stop making Pulsars so I have had to move out of my comfort zone and look at other members of the Nissan family and luckily for all concerned (excluding The Coach) I have fallen in love with the Murano *sigh*.

Yes, the Nissan Murano is my dream car, and I am confident in the knowledge that one day I will be the proud owner of a Nissan Murano. Sure I might be eighty-seven with bad hips and mild blindness in one eye. Sure my driving may be limited to reversing down the driveway at the retirement village before I gun it back up to my front door. Sure, getting in and out of the car with the aid of my motorised cart may take five times longer then the actual drive up and down the driveway. But hey, the Murano will be mine and I will be living the dream.

But just in case some important person from Nissan stumbles across my blog post, whilst muttering to themselves how smart those people from Ford were to get a blogger to test drive and report on one of their vehicles for a period of twelve months, *ahem* and realises with a blinding flash of light from the bulb above their head that I would be more than happy to test drive one of their own bad boys for twelve months. Well, I have an extensive list of new rules for my perfect dream car which I am sure will make my children and husband jump for joy :

Rules for Mum's Dream Car

Shoes will be replaced with soft Jiffies before entering vehicle

Drinks will not be consumed in vehicle

Food items will not be eaten in vehicle unless they are NASA approved space meals in a tube

All unidentified sticky residue will be scrubbed from hands before entering vehicle

Le Artiste will either sit inside a garbage bag after footy training or he will return home in Dad's vehicle aka The Old Smelly Car.

Petal, writing messages on the misty windows will be forbidden, no matter how much you love Josh/Tim/Jordan/Jack etc.

Vehicle will not be taken out if it is raining/hailing or snowing (you just never know)

Vehicle will not be taken out if it is overly dry/dusty or windy

Vehicle will be parked at the furthest corner of the shopping centre car park where no other cars park...ever

Cut lunch taken to eat whilst trekking from furthest corner of shopping centre car park to shops will not be consumed until everyone is out of the vehicle

If any of the above rules are broken. Household member will be forced to ride a bicycle at a safe distance behind vehicle for all future expeditions.

Disclaimer - Neither myself nor The Coach works for or is in any way affiliated with Nissan. I mean obviously if we were, I would already be driving a Murano wouldn't I. I have not received any form of payment from Nissan for writing this post, but if they would like to send me a Murano, I wouldn't say no. We really do just genuinely like Nissans.

Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.

You know I've never really understood that expression "Look what the cat dragged in." It seems to be used in the context of "Oh yes, and where have you been all this time ? We've been waiting for you." And is generally accompanied by the 'break it down now' beat of a foot whose owner wears the agitated expression of a bear coming in for his third swipe of the bee hive whilst dodging an army of bees wearing matching expressions of agitation. Which by the way, I am basing on speculation rather then known fact as bees have rather tiny faces and bear sightings have been few and far between around these parts.

But really, how does this expression equate to what the cat actually does drag in ? As the owner of two cats, it has been my experience that the cat usually likes to bring in headless rats. Well, sometimes it's just the head, sometimes it's the body, it's like her version of those new Barbie dolls where you can pick up various heads and mix and match them with the different bodies.

Now it may come as rather a shock to learn that I don't have an assortment of tiny, rat sized bean bags placed around the living room in anticipation of the next headless corpse (although I'm sure this would make for a rather entertaining dinner conversation when we have guests over). There are no teeny tiny welcome mats, no nuggets of cheese in the fridge (and lets face it, that would be just a plain old waste of good cheese because it's awfully hard to eat cheese when you are lacking a head). Really there is nothing but a dustpan and broom on standby to unceremoniously scoop up the remains and launch them, medieval catapult style, into the bush.

So where was I actually heading with all this ? Erm..I can't really remember..but I am here to say that although my blog posts have been rather sporadic of late, and although I am pretty sure I don't in any way, shape or form resemble a headless rat, I am trying to come back and find my blogging mojo.

Last night I proudly attended the NonAusBlogCon2011 (attended in the sense of put on my Ugg boots, grabbed a glass of wine and planted myself in front of the computer to follow the Tweet Stream of all the bloggers who were down in Sydney attended the Aussie Bloggers Conference 2011). And although I went through a short period of insane, teeth grinding, hair tearing out jealousy that I was not actually attending the AusBlogCon2011, following the Twitter Stream was a timely reminder that we here in Australia are building a formidable collection of smart and savvy bloggers who it would seem have loved meeting each other IRL (that's' in real life' for those of you who don't frequent Twitter) as much as through all the wonderful stories which flow throughout the blogging network. And quite frankly, I have missed my bloggy pals, so I am determined to pull my finger out and get blogging again.

Now that I have that out of my system, I am off to live vicariously through all the blog posts about AusBlogCon2011 whilst daydreaming about AusBlogCon2012 and perhaps hand stitching a small, rat corpse sized bean bag cover. Watch out Melbourne, this is shaping up to be bigger then Ben-Hur.

The Unlikeliest of Battle Arenas.

I never really thought that two common place objects, found in our bathroom, would come to define where The Coach and I stood within our marriage. For all I know, The Coach is blissfully unaware of this fact, but me, well I know that there are sneaky little mind games at play and by jove, let it never be said that The Waffler won't rise to the occasion to engage in a spot of friendly warfare.

It actually began some years back, when it came to my attention, that regardless of how many times I shared the secret location for my stash of excess toiletries, The Coach seemed incapable of restocking items that had run out.

As a dutiful and loving wife, I would sigh and and shake my head with a little tolerant smile, as I reached under the bathroom sink to hand The Coach another bar of soap or fresh tube of toothpaste (thankfully he has mastered the toilet paper location, because lets face it, we all have our limits).

I couldn't pin point the exact turning point in this behaviour, perhaps it was around the time I realised that both of my children were now capable of finding and replacing the soap or toothpaste, but one day, I thought, hang on just a minute, why can't he do it ?

And that's when the battles began. By battle standards they are fairly subtle and bloodless events (flossing doesn't count), but the steely resolve is there, mark my words. Just last week, as I spent five minutes trying to extract the very last grain of toothpaste, I thought perhaps I had gone too far. That if I didn't lay down my (imaginary) sword we would be facing a life of gingivitis and shag pile-like layers of plaque. I glanced at the five cent sized piece of soap and thought of the sudden inexplicable lack of invitations to all social events and pictured my children's sad little faces as I would have to explain to them that mummy and daddy weren't allowed to leave the house anymore because they were both stinky, battle weary warriors.

And so I caved, with the soap, and I walked out of the bathroom with my head hung sadly in defeat. But lo and behold, when I came back in the evening to brush my teeth, there sat a gleaming, fat, fresh tube of toothpaste. My friends, I believe this is what's known in battle terms as an impasse, or a double white flag, but either way, I think we have made progress, and that makes me a very happy and clean little Waffler indeed.

The Sea of Imagination

It probably won't come as any great surprise to you to learn that I can often be found floating on my back in The Sea of Imagination. It's rather a lovely place to drift about in, which I'm sure you would know, as I am certain that I wave to many members of the blogging community as they slowly pass me on gentle currents of their own.

My Sea of Imagination is fed from many different rivers. The River of Literature. The River of Film. The River of Theatre. The River of Music. Well, you get my drift (excuse the pun, I just couldn't stop myself). With so much wonderful creativity pouring into it, my Sea is always full to the brim and I don't think I could stop myself from popping in for a little float, even if I wanted to.

But this brings me to another point, an observation if you will. As many of you may know, Le Artiste is now nine, and catching up with friends is a favoured past time. So I have been watching the nine year olds at play, and it has saddened me to see that their Seas seems a little more like ponds, some, mere puddles.

This is not to say that they don't have bursts of wonderful imaginative play, but I often seem to encounter blank faces and those words which can drive the most patient of souls straight up the walls, "But we are bored. There's nothing to do."

Keep in mind that these are mountain children. Children with access to large yards, an abundance of trees, many family pets, the odd lake (yes, truly) and so much opportunity it makes my head spin. They have heaps of books, vast art and craft areas, trampolines and swing sets. How on earth can they be bored ?

Well, I don't know, perhaps it is an unavoidable part of living in modern society where computers, gaming consoles, mobile phones and iPads are common place. But I for one will continue to dust off the Secret Seven, Famous Five and Moomintroll books to try and encourage my children to build their rivers, expand their ponds and join me for a dip in the Sea.

And A Big Warm Welcome to 2011.

Hey ho you lovely little Peeps, and a very Happy New Year to you all. If I am going to be perfectly honest, I had all sorts of wonderful plans to start this new year off with a bright and shiny new blog layout. Oh yes, it was all happening, sort of, in my head at least. But as is often the way with wondrous plans...well...it didn't really pan out. Time, or lack of, has been rather a problem of late. Where on earth have the days been going ? It's all been a blur of socialising, singing .... oh yes, *ahem* did I mention that I have been dusting off the pipes recently ? Well if we've engaged in happy banter on Twitter you would know all about that, but if not, I'll fill you in later. What else ? Oh yes, I've been playing with my new toy, my Christmas gift from The Coach, a Bamboo Fun graphic tablet and pen.

Oh what fun I tell you. I have been absolutely bamboozled by the endless options that are available on this baby. Now I don't want you think that I am being big headed or anything, but really, I think I am an absolute natural on the tablet and pen. It's a gift I tell you, I'm sure Monet felt exactly the same way when he smeared his first glob of oil paint. No, truly, look at this.........

Yup.....uh ah.....mmmmmm......I can tell that you are speechless because you are so incredibly impressed right ? Admiring the exceptional use of colour and texture. The skill used in those perfect outlines. Perhaps you should squint your eyes and tilt your head to the left ? No ? Okay, try standing on you head whilst wearing a pair of sunglasses, I know you know what I'm talking about.

Oh okay, perhaps it still needs some work. But the point is that I am having a great deal of fun trying out all the different mediums whilst I bumble around the program. Rome wasn't built in a day you know.

Playing and drifting days aside, I have a really good feeling about 2011. This is the year that I intend to grab the proverbial bull by the horns and just go for it. Life is too short and I feel like I have been in a holding pattern for the last few years. This year I intend to shine, one way or another and I hope you'll enjoy coming along and sharing the ride with me :)