Steven Seagal is playing several gigs in Southampton in the New Year.

Really, truly.

Don’t believe me? Why not book some tickets.

Seasons greetings from us here at Meadow Towers.

Yes, we have a penguin wreath for the door.
No, I didn’t buy it.
No, I wasn’t going to put it up yet (the week before Christmas is soon enough for decorations thank you very much!) but Moose insisted.
He does look kind of cute though – any suggestions for names?

And now for the point to this post – I would like to do what I did last year and send out real christmas/holiday/non-religion-specific-hello cards to any one who would like one. Just my way of showing that I do appreciate you all for hanging round and reading my ramblings.

So, if you would like a card, email me and I will do my damnedest to get it in the post and to you by the big day. Or as near after as international posting and my unorganized nature allow!

(Even if you think I have your address already for whatever reason, let me have it again. My address book is a little… non-existent *blush*)

Email really is going to get me into trouble one of these days.

That, and texting.

I’m starting to think Moose should be given custody of my keyboard and mobile after 10pm. For the safety of all concerned you understand.

Then again, the potential for embarrassment and the humorous stories that are bound to follow is monumental and I wouldn’t want to deny you all a good laugh.

Oh, the things I do in the name of keeping my readers happy 😉

Well, better late than never. It gives me great pleasure to bring you the lastest episode of the Bright Cast.

Due to my voice being on holiday lately, and Neko owing me one in order to get the Ninja Penguins off her back (that’ll teach the girl to tell the godhead about this blog!) I decided that not only am I no longer going to be writing content for the blog, I’m also no longer going to speak content for the blog. If I continue at this rate I’ll be able to retire from this blogging gig for good!

So I kidnapped Neko, tied her down in front of the microphone, and gave her the script that Tristan wrote.

Here’s one more lovely British lady for y’all to fall in love with:

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As a kid I absolutely adored Gerald Durrell’s “My Family and Other Animals” and devoured the battered paperback many times over before I reached my teens. Looking back on it now I am struck, not so much by the animals that litter the pages and that were the driving force for me reading the book as a child, but the his family itself. They are just so joyfully… odd. And British.

I remember at the time I was bitterly envious of this family who, seemingly on a whim up-sticks for Corfu for a few months and end up staying five years. They are close, zany, arguably certifiable and clearly live life as it comes. By contrast my own family seemed so darn ordinary. I’d have given my right kidney to live in Corfu, not Glastonbury. To be tutored at home whenever my tutor wasn’t drunk or too love-sick over my fictional sister. Not to be 2.4 with dog + cat. To truly not care…

Looking back now I realize how lucky I was, in fact still am, with my family.

My Dad worked for an international shoe company, packed eggs, bottled Babycham, raced all types of boats from dinghies to tall ships, drove taxis, worked for a Sheik, irradiated small schoolchildren and was the target of a local residence association petition (though they didn’t know it was him they were petitioning against – lord, they’d have thrown rocks if they’d known it was our family!). All by the time I was fifteen.

My uncle is an engineer-turned-brain-surgeon, a member of the TA-MC, featured on a C4 documentary, served in both Gulf Wars and Bosnia, drives a TukTuk, is building a working miniature steam railway to take people on rides round the farm, and makes his own honey.

My aunt weaves, makes marmalade and flapjacks to die for, is a Ph.D, has been to two garden parties with the Queen, and has made the most welcoming and friendly home imaginable.

My grandmother was called Mop, was an award winning artist, made her own jewelry and liked Burmese cats.

My grandfather chewed coffee beans at night in the kitchen in a vain attempt to hide from his wife that he’d been eating garlic. My surrogate grandmother was called Nobby.

My other grandfather served in Africa, taught me to play chess, couldn’t stand peas, insisted that custard tarts were served with afternoon tea and that only lime worked in a G&T.

My mother very nearly got sacked from work because she was a day late back from holiday due to being ship-wrecked off Portland Bill, but her boss didn’t believe her till she showed him the headlines in the papers. She raised my brother. She raised me. Her garden is the most beautiful patch of serenity I have ever seen, she was once snogged by a camel. She in invincible on Tetris, is unbeatable at Scrabble, and she once flirted with Charles Dance in the car park at school.

My cousin is a fully trained and qualified glass blower who has exhibited at Sotherby’s and who is now training to be a doctor. Another cousin has ridden for the UK. Yet another lives in Taiwan where he teaches English and helps his wife run a business where, among other things, they sell their own line of soap. He also rides a motorbike.

My brother lived in New York for four years, loves cooking, flies light aircraft for fun, annoys the hell out of me on a daily basis, listens to R.E.M, the Doors, and P!nk, plays the piano like an angel, the guitar like a devil, and has a pet rabbit called Gilbert.

And to top it all, my dad now lives on a narrowboat.

People seem amazed that I find things about my life to write about. I’m quite frankly amazed that most people can’t find things in their life to talk about.

I used to think my family were pretty normal, then I looked again and saw that no, they are wonderfully special. Everybody has stories to tell, you just need to have your eyes open so you can see them. I’m not sure what gods were smiling over my birth, but someone up there certainly had her finger in the mix. I guess I’m thankful I come from the family I come from. More than that though, I’m grateful I realised that before it was too late. Just think of the stories I would never have been able to tell you all else-wise!

Damn it.

I got sent home from work at lunchtime today. Apparently I was just too pathetic to be taken seriously again 🙁

The problem with being sick, and sent home, is that I want to cook things. Nourishing things. Like chicken soup (don’t mock – I make a mean chicken soup!). So I slave away in the kitchen, make a lovely big batch of chicken soup, and when it’s ready to eat I… Don’t want to eat it.

There’s only so much room in my freezer and Moose can’t help eat it because it’s got almonds in it.

Er, anyone want to come round mine for some free, and tasty, soup?