How Tall Will I Be, When?

When my daughter was about 12 years old, she suddenly started to grow at an extraordinary rate.

I had never been blessed with children who remained the same size for long, they were born large and they grew continuously, so I had always had to keep buying new clothes for them all the time, but this growth phase in my daughter's life was unprecedented.

Within the space of about 5 months, she outgrew her clothes 4 times. Every few weeks, she grew a few centimeters. That meant buying everything new, every few weeks, from underwear to shoes.

This was not doing my wallet any good. Finally, even my daughter became worried, and we decided to pay a visit to the doctor to find out if there was something wrong with her growth gene, and whether she was on course to become a giant.

The doctor had a good plan. He said if he x-rayed her hand and looked at a couple of other values, it would be possible to calculate how tall she would eventually be once she had stopped growing.

According to his calculations, she would attain a final height of 1 meter 76.

It didn't seem too bad. Not a giant, just quite a tall lady. On the way home, we were both pondering on the results of the examination and my daughter said, "It's all very well, but WHEN will I be 1 meter 76? Next month?"

She had a point! She was about 1 meter 68 at the time, so we were still facing the possibility that she might go through a couple more shoots over the next few months or even weeks, and my wallet would suffer even more.

As it turned out, about half a year later she reached 1 meter 72 and after that she never grew another single millimeter.

So much for the accuracy of doctor's predictions.

Driving Home Via France and Switzerland

I have been so busy with WORK that I have had no time to write in this blog the last week. But actually last weekend I took a couple of evenings off WORK and had a very nice time with some friends. It feels like about a century ago!

On Friday we had another festival on our market square (so right outside my front door) and friends came, so we saw a live band and walked around admiring the town's decorations - the river was lit up with colored lights and blazes. It was raining a bit, so unfortunately there weren't so many people as usual, but that was quite good in a way as there was space to breathe, which usually there isn't!

The next evening same friends invited me to their house for a movie evening, and afterwards we played a few rounds of darts and table football. It was all very nice and relaxing.

The problem arose when I came to drive home. It was nearly midnight and I suddenly realized that I haven't driven in the dark through the countryside for absolutely ages! And I am night-blind.

Only about 5 minutes into the long drive through country roads I had already taken the wrong turning and it was several kilometers before I could turn round. I took at least two more wrong turnings before I finally got to the city, and then I went the wrong way again and when I tried to turn right where I needed to, I was confronted with a large set of roadworks!

Goodness only knows what route I'd gone through before I finally got home. I might easily have gone through a corner of France if not Switzerland!

All Quiet On The Western Front

I was thinking about World War I this morning when I woke up, which is a bit odd as it is not usually the first thing you think about when you wake up but I have always been a bit odd like that.

I suppose it is because that recently I have either been reading or hearing a lot about how things actually were when men returned from battle after the end of the First World War.

When I was little in the 1960s, war was still considered to be something noble, you fought and died for your country and you were thought to be a bit of a wimp if you didn't. But over time pacifism has become a kind of a norm and you are not thought of as a coward if you don't want to fight.

Personally I think that anyone eager to sign up and run off to battle, as they did in 1914, wants their head examined, but maybe that's just because I'm too cowardly to stand in a trench for 4 years with the worst possible quality of life and spending my time taking potshots at the enemy. As well as on occasion being instructed to basically commit suicide by so-called officers sitting in civilized accommodation far away with the unbelievably crazy strategy of "going over the top" and taking potshots at the enemy in the dark.

So-called "deserters" were shot. Well there's a logic for you! Like there wasn't enough shooting going on as it was! If you ask me, too many guns were in the hands of too many nuts.

The term "shell-shocked" was used to describe men returning from World War I, and back in the 1960's when I was little I used to think it was something to do with soldiers having problems with their ears from hearing too many bombs going off too close.

Now, you hear more about the mental effect on those soldiers, and the fact that there actually were very few eligible men left to marry during the 1920s - those that hadn't been killed were usually suffering from pyschological problems that were never properly addressed. In fact their discussion seemed to be kind of a taboo.

To boot, the wave of influenza that hit Europe in 1918 killed off even more people, so it must have been very tough times.

In World War I, around 10 million soliders were either killed, maimed or lost (I guess the lost applies to those who they couldn't identify as they were blown to bits).

The Battle of the Somme alone had over 1 million casualties, with 60,000 men lost on the very first day. At the end of the battle, Allied Forces had penetrated a total of 6 miles into occupied German territory.

You would think that after that first day it would have been enough for people to have seen how utterly crazy this war was.

If I had been in charge, I would have said, OK, that's it, folks! This is just too stupid.

They didn't though. And you know what? Just 19 years after the "first lot", as they called it, they went and had World War II.

And they're still at it.

Save A Little Crazy For The Menopause

I remember this line from a Woody Allen movie. Woody said it to Diane Keaton. When I heard it, I thought, oh good, so maybe this means that after the menopause I might not be quite so crazy any more. However, I now have the dreaded menopause behind me (I started very young) and there's still some crazy left. So I guess I'm saving it for senility now!

A Man And His Toolkit

Ladies, please! Not what you are thinking at all.

Just spent a lovely afternoon with a friend and her boyfriend who came to visit.

To make things easier, they parked in a free spot in the underground garage belonging to my building.

All went well until they were about to leave. The boyfriend discovered that one of the headlights was not working and said he had better fix it before they drove off.

He went to the trunk and fetched a toolkit and a set of spare bulbs.

Impressive, eh!

My friend and I stood by the light switch so that we could turn it back on when it went off (it is on a timer and goes off every 2 minutes - as the garage is underground it is then in total darkness).

What was not so impressive was that we were still standing there 20 minutes later while the boyfriend refused to give up trying to remove the headlight housing covering the bulb, which was basically impossible. He also refused to listen to our pleas to drive to a garage or gas station where there a) might be more light and b) qualified staff who were actually able to remove the headlight housing.

Upon questioning, it turned out that he had never done it before!!!

After 25 minutes I made my apologies and an excuse that I needed to return to my appartment because bla, bla. If they had any problems they should come up.

It is now one hour later and I have just tried to call them. As their phones are not ringing at all, I am guessing they are still in the underground garage, without reception, and still trying to find that last screw that will remove the headlight housing.

It's at times like these that I am so happy I don't have a boyfriend who insists on fixing everything himself, even if it takes all night, and am forced to rely on the efficient services of qualified staff, who albeit might charge me the grand sum of 3 Euros 60 cents to change the lightbulb.

In the Fog Without A Compass

It seems that the Dolly Bird (that's me) has managed to temporarily, at least, dump the Non-Boyfriend.
Having exchanged a number of useless mails over the May 1 weekend, I have decided not to reply to his last mail and simply ignore him. It makes more sense than trying to have a non-discussion.
While trying to remain polite, I told him several times in no uncertain terms what was bothering me, in fact, even a 7-year old child could have understood the issues.
One, for example, was that I do find it offensive to be called a Dolly Bird - twice.
Unfortunately, the Non-Boyfriend is claiming that he understands nothing. He has never been anything but polite, kind, a good listener, respectful, etc. Any comments that I considered to be inappropriate were "just jokes". Also, he has always been completely honest with me (hoho!).
In fact, he claims to be "in the fog without a compass". He simply has no idea what I am talking about.
Well, he can remain in the fog without a compass as far as I'm concerned. And it would be even more excellent if, apart from the lack of compass, there was no phone or Internet in it either!

How To Dump The Boyfriend

Now I have been seeing a guy for about the last 8 months. Why have I not told you this before? Because really, I have not been considering him to be a "boyfriend". More precisely, I have been considering him to be kind of a "pain in the ass".

When I first met him last summer, I did actually kind of find him fairly attractive and interesting. After a few times of meeting him, I found him to be a bit of a "bullshitter". By that I mean that he was plainly telling me "porkie pies" (lies) in order to impress me.

On top of that, he was also vaguely insulting. So I went off him.

I swear, as soon as he realized I had gone "off" him, he tried everything to get me back "on" him.

Ah, such are the ways of man.

He even brought me 3 kilos of self-raising flour at Christmas. He knew that self-raising flour was the way to my heart.

And he was right. My heart melted and I continued seeing him.

Until the next "bullshitting" and "porkie pie" phase.

And then he won the way to my heart again. Last weekend, he took me to France for a slap-up meal.

Of course, he slipped in the "bullshitting" and "vague insults" again. For example, he made a jolly good joke that he was going to tell all his mates that he had spent Saturday in France with a "dolly bird".

In case you hadn't realized, that was me.

I glossed over that, as I was trying to remain adult, and agreed to meet him again on Sunday, when once again, we deported to France, where we ate a menu of Escargots, Paté de Fois Gras, and several other French delights.

This time I paid.

As the "bullshitting" and "vague insults" were on the increase, I found an excuse to leave early and (as I was driving) took him home as soon as possible.

Barely had we arrived in the neighborhood, when he once again released the identical "dolly bird" comment of the day before.

By this time, I was kind of bursting. I am guessing, if you are a regular reader of this blog, you will realize that I have little patience for this kind of thing.

In the meantime, we have exchanged various e-mails in which I have given him the boot and he has tried to give the boot back.

The question is, how can I dump the boyfriend (who has never really been one) and still retain all my pride?