glass cracked – water splashed

You cannot possibly know just how far one and a half litres of boiling water can actually stray.

I do.

I acquired this knowledge just this morning.

I am in the process of listening to my body and it told me, that after an eternity of feeling sluggish, what I could probably do with, is some kind of detox.

Now, my mind told me that it could not possibly face the starvation kind.

So I ransacked Pinterest and found a delicious looking recipe for a fat-flushing, kidney-resuscitating kind of drink.

I went to the local supermarket and purchased something for dinner and fat-flushing water additives.

Unfortunately, I’d raided Pinterest somewhat excessively, and I hadn’t actually bothered to write the necessary ingredients for my fat-flushing beverage down. So I got confused and bought a mixture of completely wrong, as in not-fitting-together, fat-flushers. Like ginger instead of mint and mandarins instead of grapefruit – that sort of thing. And I really, really wanted to do it by-the-Pin, because I’m new to the game.

So I found myself scrutinising Pinterest again, with the ingredients that I actually had to hand – I’m not setting foot outside the house again today, unless someone’s life depends on it: the ground is a mixture of ice and snow. I discovered an interesting recipe entitled ‘Ginger Orange Detox Water’. I also found an old orange in the fruit bowl.  Perfect!

I set to work in the kitchen, peeling knobbly ginger. Did I need to peel it? I just assumed so – it didn’t say in the recipe.  And I scrubbed the not-yet-mouldy orange. All good. Then I approached the jug issue.

I took two large glass jugs from the cupboard and tried to remember which one was the 1.5 litre jug and which one was the 1 litre jug. They both have completely different shapes, but I suspected that the one with the handle could hold more liquid than the other one.

I cleverly tested out my theory by filling the handled jug with cold water and pouring it into the other jug. Smugly, I proved myself right.

I then realised that I had a surplus of cold water in the bottom of the handled jug, and the recipe clearly stated to pour boiling water over my ginger. I don’t like to waste water, so I decided to tip the excess into a pot plant in the living room. In my haste, I more splashed than poured, which splattered a good splattering of soil up the living room wall. The dog was useless. She didn’t come anywhere near in an attempt to lick up the mess for me, like she regularly does with spilt coffee or squirted apple juice. No, she just lay in her cosy bed and looked on. And I had to wipe the wall down all by myself.

I raced back to the kitchen, to my peeled ginger and ready-to-be-sliced not-yet-mouldy orange and popped the kettle on.

I did notice that the jug really was quite cold. But I felt, you know, somewhat confident.

I did think, for a brief moment, cold glass jug, mega-hot water, good idea? And I think, that might be why, in hindsight, when I poured the water into the jug, directly after it boiled, I stepped back, hesitantly, from the worktop.

The glass cracked and the water overwhelmed the work surface.

The dog sprinted to my side.

Water cascaded from the counter to the floor. An immense puddle formed and I swathed the whole room in kitchen towel.

You may think that 1.5 litres isn’t much volume, when it’s sitting there all calm and collected, minding its own business, in a glass jug. But when you set it free, be warned, it will take over your kitchen.

It will drip down rapidly filling your drawers. And you will wish, that you had never invested in all that Tupperware. All those pesky lids and lunch boxes, all those freezer tubs that are never stacked, just thrown into the drawer, causing all kinds of calamities: space loss, drawer jams and never being able to find the right lid for the right base at any given time. It will drench your cutlery and you will be forced to completely empty the drawer that you’ve been meaning to ‘clean out’ for yonks. You’ll discover that you have an odd number of chopsticks and 10 medicine spoons when you really only need one. The McDonald’s straw that you kept, pristinely wrapped in it’s paper packet will be soggy and you won’t know what to do with the wrapper because the paper recycling people clearly stated ‘No wet paper’.

You may well make the mistake of wiping the floor first. Unwinding realms of shop’s own kitchen roll that you’d stockpiled during a special offer period, and hurling it at the floor. It may seem like the right thing to do, because the dog is there, looking for a random lick. And you’re not sure there aren’t any tiny pieces of glass lurking in the liquid. And you don’t want to splash through a puddle just to get to the work surface and then traipse moist footprints across the room each time you walk to the bin and back.

Intermittently you might take a desperate shot at the drawers. Ramming in wads of save-the-kitchen roll.

But it will all be pointless. As you’ll realise when you come face to face with the onslaught on the tabletop.

A thin layer of water covers everything.  You’ll end up yelling at your cheap-buy kitchen roll because it has no soaking power whatsoever. The lake on the tabletop will remain steady and sure.

The water will have swamped everything. Except for, that is, the plant in need of water on the windowsill. You will have to dry the kettle base out for the upcoming year to make absolutely sure there are absolutely no dangers of electric shocks in the near future.

You will swish and swash the water towards the bread and away from the bread in a desperate attempt to mop the surface. It won’t make any difference. And when you finally pick up the bread, you’ll discover yet another puddle underneath.

Then you’ll be horrified to spot medication. Floating in the pond. You’ll let out a shriek and start to pray that your daughter’s brand new inhaler is still fully functioning and not now a muggy, chemical clog.

Next to it you’ll spot a packet of fallen-from-the-shelf travel sickness tablets and you’ll pop them, merrily, on the hot radiator. In full-on rescue mode. You will regret this later. When you double check the instructions which read: “Do not store over 25°C.” And you will have to throw them away.

The Italian biscuits you’ve been savouring since Christmas, as a treat for your coffee, will bathe themselves in water and you’ll wish you’d pursued the match-the-Tupperware-parts test instead of clipping the packet haphazardly closed.

You may choose to rescue your freshly peeled ginger, and without too much consideration, pop it into a random glass in the glass cupboard. This moment will come back to haunt you. While you’re still deliberating if the ginger is a safe-to-consume, glass-splinter-free zone, and thus forgetting leaving the ginger in the said glass, in the said cupboard, you will face a barrage of questions in the  ‘Why is there ginger in a glass in the cupboard, mum?’ test later on. Questions such as:

  • Does it keep flies away?
  • Are you trying to make the glass taste of ginger?
  • Does the flavour intensify when it’s sitting out?

The Fairy liquid bottle, will, by this time, be spawning its own bubbles and as you see them grow; you may have a flashback to that time you first tried to utilise a twin tub.

You left the twin tub on, all alone and on returning found the room completely filled with bubbles. You had to call your flatmate’s mother to come and assist you to de-bubble the room.

You’ll wipe the tabletop and mop your brow and then notice your already cleaned floor is totally wet again.

You’ll realise at this point that you are very much in need of reinforcements. Coffee and a biscuit. So you’ll open the cutlery drawer, automatically, and discover, that the bloody thing is full of saturated kitchen roll and even more water. You’ll end up dismantling the built in cutlery tray and finding an overflow of water underneath. Which is snaking its way into the plastic crap drawer below. You will be forced, by water, to empty out each bit of not-so-fantastic plastic, and wish, that’s what you’d just have done earlier. You’ll have to wash and dry: all of the lids, all of the lunch boxes, the snack cups, the water bottles, the tumblers, the not-stacked stackable freezer boxes and the picnic plates.

Then you’ll have to re-mop the floor.

There is only one happy moment in this sad story: the moment you’ll realise that 1.5l of water could not stray as far as the carousel cupboard. With all it’s flour and sugar and teabags. 

You’ll sigh a relieved sigh, salvage your Italian biscuits and listen to your body – which says: gorge.


My name is Sarah and I’m 40

I’m panicking.

I see myself as the latest, agile Lara Croft/Trinity/Catwoman/The Bride*, who could floor Mr Stranger-Danger in a couple of backflips and with a nicely placed (think Karate Kid), meditated karate chop here and there.

In my mind’s eye.

In my head I am young. I am fit. I am supple. And I am bendy. Apparently in all different directions.

And that, despite never having been a contortionist at any point in my lifetime. Or having stepped a leather slipper through the ballet class door or even attempted kung fu.

Although, to be fair, I did give judo more than a fair shot. I heaved myself all the way to a yellow belt. Then I promptly dislocated my left arm while running up the little hill between my home and the car park. I’d been skipping, you see. And I needed to tidy my rope into the outhouse before being allowed to join my parents in the car.

Tidiness was never my strong point.

Anyway, I began my ascent up the hill and tripped over my own silly foot.

After months of rehearsing for such falls, I obeyed my teacher (actually my aunt) and threw my stick-girl body at the ground.

Somehow, strangely, something went wrong and my arm popped right out of its socket.

I screamed with all my might and surrounding neighbours came out of their houses to vomit at the spectacle.

My mum took on a ghostly appearance as I repeatedly yelled, “I broke my arm! I broke my arm!” (Just in case someone in a neighbouring suburb hadn’t heard me).

The nurses at the hospital exhibited me proudly. Workers appeared from ward after ward to look at my now extraordinarily long arm.

The fabulous news is: it got me out of judo class. Forever.

Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes yoga. I attempted yoga. But unbelievably, dodgy knees and yoga don’t, well, harmonise.

I’m panicking slightly.

I’m 40.

And it may well be that I never ever reach my full potential.

*Delete as you feel appropriate

***Add on***

Driving my five-year old (who’s soon to be six and so excited about that fact, that she’s telling the dental receptionist, her husband, the postman and his dog, the delivery man, the woman at the bakers and any other random stranger she comes into contact with) to her ballet class this evening she asked me about the story I had been writing today.

As usual, she said, “I know that one!”

My stories are all known and constantly reiterated by my children. At times wrongly.Which, I can tell you, can lead to even more embarrassment than the events themselves actually had done.

We talked a little of fantasising and fantasies that could never become a reality.

Then she decided to inform me that she has a lot of fantasies and I could have some of them.

That pricked my interest, I can tell you.

But after further questioning she “couldn’t quite remember” any of her own envisionings.

She then went on to offer to teach me judo, having never been to a single judo class in her short life (though who knows what’s happened in her daydreams?)

Allegedly, I have to fall on my hands and my knees next time.

So, now I know.


Kate Kresse’s comment:

Good news–i haven’t run into the coffee table in 2 days. but i did open the fridge door right into my head. (duh).

on my last post reminded me of recent events.

Remember my headache? I’ll deviate slightly here, just for information’s sake and inform you that yes, I still have it, and yes, I am demented by now.

No, it’s not as bad as it was. I’ve been having manual therapy, which does something, but nothing seems to remove it completely.

It would seem I’m stuck with it, at least for the moment. I have seen far too many doctors and therapists in the last almost four months. I’ve decided for the foreseeable future I’m going to avoid doctors and therapists completely. Save some money. And battle on through.

The good news is that there is definitely no tumour. I had a CT scan and the neurologist (that would be neurologist number two) told me that my brain is perfect.

That statement, however, made me even more sceptical toward doctors. My brain definitely does not work properly. I regularly forget my children’s names. Lose my keys. Write down a shopping list then don’t bother to take it with me. Find myself standing in the middle of a room wondering why the hell am I here? And then there’s the time I forgot to pull down my knickers before I sat on the loo…

Anyway, back to the lovely Kate’s comment.

In December, a month or so into my headache, I found myself in my kitchen, pretending I didn’t have a headache and attempting to knead dough. OK partly I was kneading, partly I was taking out my frustrations. So much so in fact, that not only my hands were working, but the rest of my body as well. A fact I realized when I lunged my head forward and smacked my forehead against the kitchen cupboard’s metal door handle.

I suspect the resulting bruise would have been nowhere near as bad, if I had not then walked over to another cupboard and opened it whacking it directly against the exact same spot on my poor forehead.

Now you have to remember that at that point I had been heard (quite loudly) complaining about my headache, at every given opportunity.

Thus people from near and far spotted me walking around with a full-on let’s-go-through-the-rainbow-spectrum-of-colours bruise right in the middle of my forehead.

“I wonder why you’ve got a headache?” they felt the need to chortle.

Finally, milk bottle white again, I proceeded with acupuncture.

Which resulted in not one but two bruises, conveniently placed above each eyebrow.

Let’s just say, I became familiar with the term, “It looks like you’ve got horns growing out of your head!”

And my evil good-humoured family launching into fits of hysterics every time they caught a glimpse of me.

It comes in threes

I’ve been pondering what the third freaky accident will be.

The first, as you may already have read, happened in the early hours of Monday morning.

By ‘early hours’ I mean before 7am.

As in, at around 6.3oam.

Before 7am, I am a hold-your-eyelids-open-with-matchsticks kind of a girl. Even at 6.59am, I can be observed attempting to slay alarm clocks with wild sweeping arm movements.

But at 7am my eyelids contentedly hold their own. My frown is upside down. Sometimes there’s even a spring in my step. And I greet my son with a, “Rise and shine!” instead of a, “Can I get in there with you?”

Truly sad, because during the week I have four, yes FOUR pre-7am starts.

This week started with a crash and some wailing.

I’d managed to drag both myself and my sleepy-headed boy out of bed. He dressed himself and headed downstairs for breakfast while I slunk into the bathroom, trying to convince myself this wasn’t some ungodly hour and then I heard the noises.



I separated my once pert bottom from the toilet and raced my almost 4o year old legs down the stairs without consideration. (The consideration being that I have fallen down the stairs on many occasions, last time breaking my finger and the time before that, my tail-bone).

I reached the kitchen, all bones intact, and discovered my shocked son surrounded by broken crockery and yelling about his eye.

Despite my pre-7am state, I managed to have a flurry of thoughts:

“Eye doctor!”


“Eye operation!”


Adrenaline shocked into wide awake (possible alarm clock invention any one? ‘The Adrenagong’, I should patent the name…) I held my son’s head in my hand and stared into his eye. He decided, at that moment, actually, his eye’s alright. But he bawled on because his mouth really hurt.

That’s when I noticed my pre-breakfast dosage of blood:

It turns out, that as the bowl hit the tabletop, a rogue, savage splinter, defied physics by firing back up at him and striking him on the lip.

Even more astounding is the fact that the injured area could not be seen on the outside of his face, instead, after mopping away the blood, I found the deep cut inside his mouth.

I can just imagine him standing there, mouth gaping, as the bowl fell.

That was on Monday.

Tuesday came and we went about our business during the day without much incident.

Really, that should have been a warning sign. There’s always at least one incident.

My husband headed off to bed early, not feeling too well, and I decided to be nice and make him a hot toddy to help him sleep.

I took one of those capable cups out of the cupboard.

Ironic that in the rhyme I wrote him, I called them ‘Capable cups’.

I filled it with milk and popped it in the microwave for 90 seconds.

I opened a miniature whisky and removed the lid from the sugar bowl and waited for the microwave to triumphantly ‘beep’.

I attempted to extract the incapable cup from the microwave but I had to let it go.

I’m trying not to exaggerate here, but the heat in the handle reminded me of molten lava. I don’t mind telling you that I’m not brave and I did scream.

I rammed my hand under the full force of the cold tap, while the rest of my body took part in some strange kind of unerotic dance and my face winced.

I carefully used an oven glove to manhandle the crap cup and pour the not-so-warm-milk into an old, scratched but non-maiming mug from the back of the cupboard.

Wishing the whisky was for me, I poured an extra-large measure into the milk and carried it into my already sleeping husband.

I woke him, of course.

Then showed him my battle scars.

Four blisters. One of which is 15mm long. I know. I measured it.

He lovingly dragged his still pert bum out of bed and dressed my damaged hand with some magic healing cream and a bandage.

Two freaky accidents in two days.

On Wednesday, someone accidentally jammed my rapidly-turning-into-a-damaged boy’s hand in the classroom door.

However, I couldn’t really consider this to be a freaky accident.

The children and I made lunch together. Which translates as: I waved around my bandaged hand in a directing capacity.

I sent my son downstairs to fetch bottled water, but he returned from the cellar, hand swelling and blue-fingered. Having managed to hit his hand off the crate in exactly the same spot that it had been jammed in the door at school.

This must be the third freaky accident, surely?

Please say, “Yes!” and then I can be done with it. 😉

Stylish blogger

A while ago, I received a “Stylish Blogger Award” from Every day I see a cow. I rejoiced. A lot. Then procrastinated. A lot. Because receiving the award dictates I should tell my readers 10 things they don’t know about me. And then to pass on the award to some other bloggers.

I discovered that I am probably reading too many blogs and that I have too many stories to tell. When I checked out other winners, I discovered they wrote things like: I like chips. A lot. Or my favourite colour is black. (If you know me, then you already know my favourite colour is black, so I thought I wouldn’t put that one in).

I reread through, what I had written and then I discovered that I’m a proper chatterbox.

So I hummed and hawed in significant quantities. More than necessary, to be honest.

And I came up with this:

1. I am honest. As in, I can’t lie very well, and I have one of those faces that just ‘gives me away’, besides, when I did get away with a lie, I felt so guilty, it led to the realisation that it just wasn’t worth it.

2. I am the most clumsy person on the earth. If you know me personally, you will actually know that. But have I told you that I fell during every single one of my four pregnancies?

It all started with Joni. I fell while running after a bus.

Then during Lori’s pregnancy, I tripped over, walking up a small hill (going on a picnic) and tore a ligament in my foot thus requiring crutches (not to be recommended, a clumsy woman, swinging around on crutches from the sixth month of pregnancy, the weight distribution is all wrong).

While pregnant with Aden, I can hardly bear to admit this, I fell over the safety gate (no, it wasn’t at the top of the stairs – luckily). But during the fall, I also managed to embed the kitchen door handle in my knee. Despite never having done gymnastics, I do have an uncanny knack of getting myself into weird positions.

Lastly with Akasha, I fell down the stairs and broke my tailbone, then had to stay seated/lay down for the following three months because, having been shuggled around she thought she would pop out too early. Not to be advised, sitting around for three months on a broken tailbone.

My clumsiness has also led me to:

  • Falling up a small hill (after tripping over my own foot) and dislocating my arm
  • Crashing into lampposts whilst out walking dogs
  • Falling over the fork on a fork lift truck (and therefore having a 2 year-long leg injury)
  • Giving my son a massive nose bleed after bumping his head on the roof of the car
  •  Frightening passersby half to death as I overturned the pram while wrestling it down the steps of the house (luckily, no baby was actually in the pram).

I am scarred and battered and bruised at all times.

3. I am very lucky. Not in the way that I win the lottery or other valuable prizes. No. But you’ll know exactly what I mean when I say, as the dinner guests arrived, I dropped my only six plates on the floor but not one of them broke (to everyone’s astonishment). That kind of lucky. My mother used to say that I’d fall in a pile of shit and still come out smelling of roses. But I prefer the plate analogy.

4. I once arranged a kissogram to come to school and ‘surprise’ a friend for her birthday. I think it was her 17th. I had to get permission from the headmaster before it could go ahead, (no idea how I swung that one, only guess is no. 3) and raise the cash, which I did by encouraging other friends to dig deep. The result was that everyone in the whole school knew, except my friend. She had absolutely no idea. Even though kids abandoned classrooms before the frog prince arrived, and the teachers lost control of the school. Again, I think that this was down to luck on my part and not my abilities in deception.

5. I am untidy. I mean I walk past the coat hook and my jacket sort of, naturally lands on the chair. I place my keys on the first surface they come across, then promptly forget where. And it drives my very tidy husband mad. But I do keep trying to avoid my natural instinct in an effort to be more organised and to keep my marriage on track. (My marriage seems to be on track, but my husband may argue, that I don’t fight my instincts quite enough).

6. I obsessively wash my hands. I sweep the floor then wash my hands. I wash my hands after I touch every ingredient that I chop or handle. Not just raw meat or fish or smelly things like garlic or messy things like eggs. I look at the bin and I wash my hands. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty,  just so long as there’s a sink within a hop, skip and a  jump away, so I can wash my hands immediately.

I do a few other obsessive things too, like always use the same toilet if I need to ‘go’ more than once in a restaurant. And in the toilet, I will correct the toilet roll so it faces the right way.I straighten pictures, even in the homes of others, which doesn’t fit well with number 1 as I have been known to knock pictures down from the wall. I lock the car two or three times. I think this is because I’m actually afraid I forgot to lock the car. And I feel the need to always recheck I have my keys. I even feel the compulsion to make my friends check that they have their keys when we leave their home, which makes them look at me oddly and makes me apologise a lot.

7. I have a lot of friends. I’m not sure how this happened considering number 6, but I do. My mother used to tell me that if a person had one or two good friends in life, then they would be very lucky. I’ve already told you that I’m a very lucky person. I have extremely deep feelings for my friends and often find myself feeling emotional because of their many kind acts.

8. I am jealous. Not of what other people have. But if someone approaches my man, my claws come out. I’ve mentioned on this blog before that I’m terribly forgetful. Let me tell you, that being forgetful and jealous, is not a good combination.

For example: A few weeks ago I found a girl’s name and telephone number on the to do list on my husbands mobile phone. My heart started to race and my palms turned sweaty as I tried to nonchalantly ask, “Who’s that?” I couldn’t remember the damn name of his secretary, so when he turned the question back on me, I suggested “Your secretary?” Now, considering he’s had the same secretary for the seven years we’ve been here, that didn’t go down too well. Especially tied together with the realised accusation in the first place. He told me to guess again. After some amount of torture time he told me it’s that babysitter that he saw advertised and may be suitable for us (older, qualified and will take on four kids (most won’t)). Then I started to feel much worse as he pointed out that we’ve actually been through this whole jealous outburst, over exactly the same name on the same to-do list before. Ouch.

It’s probably about time we purchased non-identical phones!

9. I was a vegetarian for 16 years. Now I’m a ‘meater’. I eat meat meat meat all of the time and my husband finds this hysterical. He watches me tucking into a steak and shakes his head, and laughs and says, “You vegetarian!” He would love to take the credit for ‘turning me’ (we’d met just a few months before the big change) but he can’t. Credit goes to boredom and a fish supper. Followed closely by a bacon sandwich.

10. I’m a comedy freak. I love comedy in every form, be it film, sitcom, stand up or books. I love to laugh. As a child I became convinced that my life could be rewritten as a Carry On film. Not the rude bits. I didn’t get them. But the constant falling over, bumping into things, knocking things down and general embarrassing moments. Everything filmed in the form of Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em and in the background that Barbara Windsor laugh.

I feel a bit better about the awarding part. Because this very morning I received a Versatile Blogger award from Patti meaning I can separate my awards out into two different categories.

My Stylish Blogger Awards go to:

Northern Mummy with Southern Children: a mummy blogger with a great sense of humour and a fantastic tale-telling ability.

4 kids, 20 suitcases and a beagle: an Australian mummy blogger writing entertaining and thought-provoking articles, from her present home in the Middle East.

Flufflepot: a stunning artist/storyteller. My kids love her too.

Mummy Mayhem: A popular and inspirational blogger, who despite her own success, still makes time to help out little bloggers, like me.

Words and Pictures: a Scottish writer, full of heart. She’ll move you, make you laugh and entertain you with lovely little snippets of conversation with her mum who is suffering from dementia. She’ll also recommend you a good book or two.

No stranger to awards: Read Between The Minds is the place to visit if you want to read some thought-provoking poetry.

M a K A Personal Diary This blog is an incredible and inspiring story of an 18-year-old young man from Luxembourg, and his travels. First to Spain and then on to El Salvador teaching children from impoverished backgrounds English and IT. It’s a must read, from start to finish!

Coming up soon – My Versatile Blogger Awards!! 😀