I’ve had this blog for 8 years today. So, happy blogiversary to me, and if you comment (shameless me), I’ll pick out some nice piece of Jubilee or Olympic memorabilia (notice how I didn’t say tat) and mail it to you…

In the meantime, have a picture from Trooping the Colour yesterday…Yes. I saw the Queen. I stopped taking pictures, and waved, and I’d swear she looked right at us and smiled a lovely happy beam.

(And no, I’m not posting from work. I put this onto auto-post, because I didn’t want to miss the date).

xxx

June’s, so far, are here.

My favourite? Richard Griffiths’ autograph.

xxx

I seem to be being terribly oversensitive at the moment. Not a good trait. It drives others up the wall, making them feel as though they tiptoe round. I suspect that I am due a bit more of a holiday than a day or so here, and there. One that doesn’t involve going overseas to a conference. Or taking other peoples’ children away. We are booked to escape London during the Olympics, to go and wander round Penrith, to pretend we’re Withnail & I, to climb Ben Nevis, to potter round Chatsworth (there’s been a sight too many trips to Derbyshire where there’s not been the opportunity to go to Chatsworth, but there’s been plenty of opportunity to drive straight past).

Anyhow. Back to the oversensitivity. I recognise this. I shall do something about it. It’s not helpful, it’s fairly destructive and it doesn’t make anyone happy. Please, bear with me gently while I sort myself out. Remind me when I’m being oversensitive, point out when I’m taking on too much (I may not necessarily listen) and help me down from the ceiling of argh-mad-panic.

My Mother reports that Flossie the duck has been pecking my Father’s arm in a bid to get attention and more food. She’s getting terribly tame with my parents, for a wild duck. Ferdinand isn’t quite so rude… neither of them were feeling photogenic while I was there last week.

Meanwhile, I’m going to enjoy having a rare evening with the flat to myself, and watch some total rubbish on the TV and knit (and sew buttons onto Eff’s baby’s clothes set #1. Yes. I know. Normally, I don’t knit until the babe’s arrived, but I’m a bit excited, and I want my Goddaughter to know that she’s loved, and wanted, regardless of anything that might happen. And one of the ways I show love is through knitting).

xxx

Oh yes. On Brownie camp. Or preparing for Brownie camp. Or recovering from Brownie camp.

I’m still recovering from Brownie camp. And I’ve rather stupidly agreed to be Div Comissioner for the next 3, or is it 5 years? Heck. I dunno. The last two haven’t stayed the full course, I’ve been Guiding 9 years, so I think it’s 5 years. Drat.  It’s OK. I’ve already been given a thorough telling off by my father about it all.

Brownie camp was damp, noisy, trying, and occasionally rewarding. But I do wish parents would send their children with wellie boots that don’t require a ten minute wrestling session to apply because the dratted things are too small. I am glad that almost all arrived with waterproofs (which may, or may not, have actually been on the list). And I’m pleased that one parent has actually managed to put a thank you into writing, because, I can tell you, the verbal thanks that were given at the train station didn’t make it to me until I had an entire meltdown on twitter and threw several items round the kitchen and expended a LOT of energy on some extremely vigorous tidying up approximately 24 hours later when I realised that not one single parent had thanked me. And you know, as a volunteer, being thanked is a Pretty Enormous Deal. Because, frankly, that’s the only reward we actually get.

N’s on his way over. He forgot the tickets for the theatre tomorrow, and had to go home to get them. Faced with an evening in on my own, I got all excited at the prospect of downtime – there’s been Too Many People this week, and now I can’t wait for him to get here, because I’m not liking this being on my tod malarkey. Contrary? Me? Oh yes.

xxx