I'm claiming it on expenses

Like most people, I've been watching the unravelling of the MP's expenses scandal open-mouthed. I'm so jealous I can hardly splutter forth venom. As an M.P there'd be no need to pay for my Tampax anymore; I could have my poshest rugs repaired and paid for by other tax payers; I'd enjoy a variety of houses and flats pretending I'm living in whichever one took my accountant's fancy that week; I'd get my mole problems sorted at no cost to myself, and I wouldn't have to show receipts for slap up meals or treats that cost less than £250. Best of all, none of this would put a dent in my £65,000 salary. Show me the money!
There'd be one downside though, come to think of it.
No-one would trust me ever again. I would be despised at least as much as Fred the Shred. None of my good intentions or pleas for a refocussing on the important things would have any credence. My name, my judgement and my honour would be mud and filth. I'd have to spend all my time making feeble excuses rather than bellowing "Hear, hear" in the House, and have to satisfy myself instead with cries of "I didn't break any rules" in the comfort of one of my other houses.
But at least I'd have the satisfaction of knowing incontrovertibly that I'd been one of the gang responsible for ending parliament as we know it. My name will be forever secure in the history books.
And that is my 400th blog post. What a sad way to mark this mini milestone.

Inadequacy and awe from Saturday's Guardian (or I love Lucy)

After days of physical toil and rote, the brain needs a bit of a stir, but like a muscle, it doesn't take much abandonment before it starts to atrophy.
So there I am, trying to rev myself up again with help from the Review section of the Saturday Guardian, switching between feelings of inadequacy and awe.
My sense of stupidity is at its height when I come across the spread on Sharon Olds, whom "many regard as America's greatest living poet". And I've never even heard of her. Do I blame my clearly inadequate Eng Lit degree course or myself? Myself of course. Just her photograph (that's it above) and quotes are enough to tell me I should have known of her, even if the specifics of her poetry sailed beyond my ken.
Next up, Julian Barnes' warm reminiscence of Penelope Fitzgerald has me smiling in appreciation of them both; clear minded, with sure literary feet, one admires their intellect and artistry.
But then, a treat of great humour. The Guardian is having fun at Mr Spin's expense. Alastair Campbell reviews Haruki Murakami and from the title to the last phrase, the piece is pure Campbell spin, using a paean to Murakami to enhance himself and puff his own work (some of which hasn't even been finished yet). How utterly venal, how shallow, how obvious, how very, very funny. My awe levels swiftly return to normal and feelings of inadequacy are drowned by giggling.
Just a flick away in the G's Weekend mag, beams Lucy Mangan's column. She's my favourite writer in the paper (as is Lynn Barber in the Observer), guaranteed to make me laugh, and always in the right way; what a satisfying turn of phrase she has. Writing on the flailing economy, Mangan suggests that we'll all be bartering piglets for firewood as if that was some kind of backwoods, medieval activity beyond the daily grind of her readers. Lucy, I'd happily swap half a trailer load of logs for any piglet you happen to have about you any time you like; delivery not included though.

Sir Alan says it's ok to lie

Did millions of viewers watch Siralan Sugar's Gerald Ratner moment last night? Did we really see Claire's victory tossed carelessly to a proven liar?
Perhaps I'm being over fussy and prissy, but last week when Lee's CV lies were revealed, I thought his firing was a no-brainer. When he escaped I thought Siralan was keeping him on for a spectacular runner-up firing: "What? Hire a liar and put him in charge of important business in my organisation? Never!". He was obviously lining up Claire to slide into pole position.
But no. Suffering from the myopia that saw the Badger relegated to second place (and Claire is after all the Badger Mark II), Siralan has told the world that it's fine to lie, that we all do it, and promptly picked a prime example of the dishonest charmer breed to represent the kind of person he wants in his organisation.
The brazenness of this decision has all the trappings of the insular view that led Ratner to tell the world that his products were "total crap". Now we all know, endorsed by the small man himself, that his staff are untrustworthy. I can see the painful twisting of Margaret's mouth.
Siralan, it was great tv, but you're fired!

The boys are back in town

I have used my new found competency and brought home the rare breed bacon. Three Berkshires, my pig breed of choice, and a pair of Middle White/British Lop crosses to make up the numbers.
Middle White adults are the most ugly beast, with squashed wrinkled heads, reminiscent of a Sharpei, so I'm hoping for the sake of not scaring the local wildlife, that the British Lop element will temper their looks whilst maintaining their reputation for perfect pork.

The Sorcerer's Apprentice

Enough of lambing and spring. Let's leave the pastoral red in tooth and claw world for some rat race sneering.
I don't know anyone like the competitors on The Apprentice. I have no idea if they are actors or one-offs or clichés of a group that I just haven't come across (other than in the zoo perhaps). They lie without compunction (have they forgotten that they are being filmed, watched and noted?), have the kind of bitter rows I've only ever seen within families, and are, each and every one, vile on a surfeit of ego.
Can you imagine announcing to anyone let alone to the whole BBC viewing public, that you have a high IQ? Serious chips on shoulders and inferiority complexes going on there. Or perhaps you'd feel happier emphasising some part of a self-perceived brilliance? No. The narcissism is of truly Greek proportions.
It makes for extraordinary viewing and tells you everything you need to know about how not to manage people. Not one of the current crop is a simply nice, intelligent person with good or interesting ideas; they are all deeply flawed humans. They will all be fired because of their hubris, human frailties and the will of the gods - aka Siralan (is that one word or two?).
I wonder how they would fare being put in charge of the lambing shed? How would they divvy up the shifts, make sure they had the right equipment and skills, collaborate in a life or death situation, ensure cleanliness and good husbandry? If they can't run a pub grub night effectively (otherwise known as a piss-up in a brewery), they wouldn't stand a chance.
Horrid tykes the lot of them. I watch it through spreadeagled fingers; it's almost unbearable.

From whimsical to strident in one easy step

Cosy in my chair, empty supper plate being licked by one of the cats, dogs snoozing at my feet. Turn on the telly for some Sunday evening soft soap - nothing too enervating or illuminating required.
And then the ads come on and I find myself moving from calm to crazy in seconds. Is it just me or will Boots have to withdraw their new ad within the week? A breathily voiced woman (surely no-one speaks like this for real?) pants over some pseudo scientific face product. We see and hear how this stuff has resulted in women queuing like desperadoes in a state of heightened agitation, giving high-pitched screams, elbowing their fellow women painfully aside, and praised for their innovative use of handbags to bash each other on the head.
What is all this ridiculous stereotyping of women as violent idiots? Considering women must make up the massive majority of Boots customers you think they would avoid wholesale sneering at their lifeblood. We've moved on guys. Get a grip.

Disgusted of Devon

Words fail me.






Photograph: John Stillwell/PA from Guardian website

A thoughtful blog

The Thinker and Dick Madeley have simultaneously nominated me for a Thoughtful Blogger Award. That's really lovely. Thank you. I have added the award to the small heap of gongs collecting snugly but not smugly at the bottom of this blog.
I wasn't that much of a prizewinner in my youthful days. I do remember getting a cartoon version of the Old Testament for doing something or other at Hebrew classes. I still have it. I read it many, many times and kept it by my bed. Not because I was a religious child; on the contrary I told my parents that I didn't believe in God at a very early age and reasoned effectively that it was therefore inappropriate for me to continue attending said award-bestowing Hebrew classes on a Sunday morning. What kept me intrigued was that the book was a forerunner of graphic fiction, and I was of an age to relish every carefully drawn detail of the burning bush, Jacob's ladder and Lot's wife turned into a pillar of salt. The women were Modesty Blaise in modest robes and the men an early form of Superman with six-packs, broad shoulders and oddly, hips wrapped tightly in long skirt-type affairs.
I also received a prize when I left secondary school; I have no recollection what it was for. What I DO remember was that typically of me, I fell up the stairs to the stage and sprawled at the feet of the embarrassed celebrity giving out the goodies. I don't remember who he was either.
So I must now hand out five more gongs, but as allowed by the rules, I will be giving out a different gong - a Creative Blogger award - for creative bloggers who stand out from the crowd. To avoid an incestuous and virtuous circle of award giving I will hunt out some fresh blood and nominate below as they come to light.

1. The Veg Box Diaries, because they share a love for Cavolo Nero and have an elegant blog categorised by luscious food type.
2. Tunnocks Teacakes Forever...for a fab title. And I think a greed theme is developing here
   
3. Aphra Behn, notably for her lentils
4. Nourishing Obscurity, not for the grub but for the maniacal outpourings of wondrous daft stuff that is a veritable waterfall
   
5. more to follow....

Post Script:
And at the end of the weekend, I now find, courtesy of the fascinating Eurodog blogger, that I have also been handed an Inspirational Blogger award. I will take my time to suss out the ongoing nominations to encourage me to actively hunt down voices that are new to me. I will be updating this post as and when I do.

Reading the meter

Vanity requires one to check how the few but cherished people visiting and reading actually find this blog, and the fascinating site meter has a tale of its own to tell. There are the lovely old faithfuls who keep you snugly in their sidebar (for which, much thanks) and so signpost new readers to Mopsa's offerings. But I really enjoy unearthing the info that folks have found me via some totally personal and possibly bonkers Google search.

If you google “soaking filthy feet”, as one hopeful clean soul (sole?) had, Ramblings is currently first in line. Then there was “Chagford & tango”, “the magic faraway tree” (thrice), “mariana lambing”, “Mrs Malaprop”(twice), “funday fairies daisy meadows order online”, “drop em blossom”, “chim chiminey”, “location of sloes, Warwickshire”, "abscess on gordon ramsay turkeys foot", "guinea pig runny bum", "langan family theatre royal stratford east" and “wet wellies”.
I doubt that I have provided either relief or information on any of these topics, but it's good to know that if you have concerns about pet rodent diarrhoea or how to dry your wellingtons, that an utterly useless piece of Mopsa whimsy or whingeing can distract you momentarily from your research.

But back to the old faithfuls. I hadn't dared contemplate that this blog contains "nature meets art"; The Thinker is a generous soul. The Thinker, she of various articulate and thoughtful blogs (and also blogging from Devon) has shipped a Blogging Community Involvement Award my way, which sounds highly do-gooderish until you realise it is an award for being a schmoozer. Schmooze I can do - sometimes I think that's what I'm paid for. I grew up with words like schmooze, many of them less than polite. And how many people do you know who can speak Yiddish? As a language that no-one round my way is familiar with, it could be said to encourage dissembling, but these days I have to rack my brain to remember just a handful of words. Kvetch, chutzpah, mensch, messhuganer, nebbish, schlemiel, schlong, schmutter, schnoz, shtick, tush, yenta.....what fabulously expressive words - a whole phrase and intention in each.

And now I must nominate 5 awards of my own:

1. Chip Dale, the master thonglateer
2. Yorkshire Pudding, in exchange for his mature blogger award
   
3. Kaz, the busy idler
4. Drunk Mummy - just as it says on the tin
5. Mountainear, for schmoozing from great heights and to great effect.
   

Old lady award

The hearty Yorkshire Pudding (delicious with your Sunday roast) has handed me a mature blogger.
Apparently, this new and by definition currently rare award goes to those "who have blogged with mature dignity, saying wise and mature things" Worryingly, the associated traits are drinking in moderation, praying each night and beginning every other sentence with either "When I was young..." or "In my day...".
This award is therefore causing me concern me on numerous counts:

1. I am not ready to grasp the baton of middle age, no matter what it says on my passport
2. Neither am I ready to relinquish the inner child
3. Mr Pudding called me Mr Mopsa...he thinks I'm a man. Do I sound like a man? Should I worry that I sound like a man? I'm not a man. Honest. Didn't you read my blog on bras? I think I've written two of them. Don't they count for anything??
   
4. My drinking is in such moderation that the Bloody Mary I had on Friday night was the first bit of alcohol to pass my lips since I chomped on a chocolate cherry brandy liqueur some months back, but that doesn't make me mature, does it? Just sad.
5. What's praying?
6. But yes, I must admit to penning phrases such as "aeons ago" or similar when relating past experiences, and have shared the actuality of my grey streaked hair, so I probably only have myself to blame.

I will try and write like a youthful snippet, a flibberty gibbet with no cares in the world, an ageless soul. And then perhaps someone will, in all innocence, send me an award for blogging juvenilia. I can only hope.

The meme game

Thanks to le Chippy, followed swiftly by Jan Tregeagle, I have yet another meme (or more appropriately meme) to send on its merry way. If this carries on, I will have no secrets left.

What was I doing ten years ago?
It was a Sunday, and according to my diary the day was blank - but I was no doubt recovering from the previous day's surfeit of stunning outdoor international theatre at its very best - and all a decade before The Sultan's Elephant was a twinkle in a Parisians eye.

What was I doing one year ago?
I was working in London for the day, with a view of Tate Modern, and meeting more than 40 of the most interesting artists and arts managers in the capital. I was also celebrating my first year living in Devon.

Five snacks I enjoy (only five?)
Halloumi, fried in olive oil and served with rocket and raspberry vinegar - it's posh cheese for adults, and it squeaks!
Ready brek
Raspberries with clotted cream
Sausages - homemade, with friends and an old Kenwood
Chocolate puds - any luscious kind will do.

Five songs to which I know all the lyrics
If I were a rich man
I've farted
She was poor but she was honest
Every last word of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat (feel free to wipe that memory any time you like)
I'm gonna sit right down and write myself a letter (or perhaps a blog)

Five things I would do if I were a millionaire
I'd build a big tall house with rooms by the dozen... (actually no, I'd restore the old barns on the farm)
I'd fill my yard with chicks and turkeys and geese and ducks (and lots of art)
I wouldn't have to work hard (in reality I would probably work harder, but on the land, using muscles and no less brain)
I'd buy my sister a house with garden in central London - make that if I were a multi-millionaire
I'd have a party!

Five bad habits
Picking my feet
Snapping and snarling
Forgetting important things, remembering the minutiae
Innate laziness
Writing other people's to do lists

Five things I like doing
Walking the dogs
Eating with friends
Dibbling my toes in the sea
Lambing successfully
Reading in the sun

Five things I would never wear again
Zigzag orange and purple psychedelic flares
Yellow crocheted dress
A suit
Red stilettos....then again
Polo necks

Five favourite toys
Binker the bear
Twister
Newspaper fish
iPod
My Canon iXus

Phew. The baton is now passed to: Eurodog, Flowerpot Days, Keir Royale, Around My Kitchen Table and And Who Cares? Feel free to pick it up, to ignore it or to pity my revelations.

Hair

Thinking about my eventual long white pigtail got me in a hair frame of mind. The previously referred to wild barnet is just that. Long; when wet it is below the waist, when dry it waves about between my shoulder blades like a remonstrating ferret on a windy day. It won't stay behind my ears and it won't stay tidy. I doubt if it has it ever been tidy. Twenty years ago it was deeper brown, glossier, fuller and curlier. I was Shirley Temple on speed. Or if you are feeling unkind, Bonnie Langford on prozac. Now it is my thatch, with a fabulously Cruella De Vil silver streak on the left. I thought I'd hate it but actually, I'm rather fond of it and wonder when the finger-thick streak will extend to the rest of the still dark ringleted mess. In my twenties it was my mane, my pride and joy, my mark of femininity (important for someone who eschews make-up and only recently owned perfume and high heels), but now it is probably more appropriately characterised as middle-aged hair. The hairdressers are itching to cut it off to some respectable length - but I refuse to look like somebody's mother from a previous generation. But perhaps I'll give the pigtail a blue rinse. When I'm eighty.