Random: Half-term school break, Norfolk, Kittens, Essex and The Strangers

Thank god that the half-term school holiday is over! The world rightened itself. Hurray! Christmas half-term holiday is round the corner, though. *sob*

We got back from Essex and Norfolk where we spent our half-term school break. We had been staying at a cousin’s cottage near Maldon. It was awesome. The countryside was lovely. In spite of my hatred for the sea, Maldon itself was lovely as well.

Trampling Through Essex

We visited Colchester where I lived one time. I bumped into a former friend, which was an odd experience. She was shocked that I was married with two children. “I didn’t think you were the type,” she said tactfully with a quick glance at W. She didn’t have to be subtle as W knew. He took the piss out of me the rest of the day, though. Bastard.

W and the mites also went to Colchester Zoo. I didn’t go because zoos and circuses make me feel uncomfortable, to the point where I’m visibly tense. (I don’t know why it makes me feel so uncomfortable. I’d been like that since I was a toddler) Instead I went to a local Colchester hotel on High Street to meet up with a friend who works there. She was meant to take the afternoon off, but someone was called in sick so she couldn’t. So I sat behind her in the reception desk so we could chat when she wasn’t working. It was fun. I didn’t realise how often the desk phone rang, though. It seemed to ring every ten minutes. It sharply increased my admiration for all desk receptionists in the world.

We’ve also visited Chelmsford where I lived and worked one time when I was an aspiring librarian. We went to the Central Library, hoping to see Senior Librarian Jo, who was my boss, but she no longer works there which was a shame. I didn’t recognise anyone, which isn’t a surprise as it’s been years since I worked there. We went to the place where I lived and to my shock, it was gone. It was a 1930s two-up, two-down terraced house. The entire row, gone. Nothing but a flattened land. Bang in the middle of a town.

There was a huge sign nearby that said there will be an array of “luxury” blocks of flats. An computerised image of the proposed property on the sign looked horrendous. I tried to find a site about this property, but couldn’t find it. Here’s the same company’s other property: Marconi Plaza, that resembles my old street’s proposed block. (Note: Marconi refers to Chelmsford’s famous Italian inventor Guglielmo Marconi, who based his factories in Chelmsford. The disused New Street building still can be seen today.)

The rest of our time, we were pretty much layabouts at the cottage while the mites used the back garden as their personal jungle. Once in a while W would feel so inspired by the countryside that he cracked up a long, proper meal. While I enjoy most of his efforts, I think he takes his cooking too seriously sometimes. He uses a thermometer to test certain food items on hob or in oven. He also sometimes drove all over place to find certain elusive ingredients needed in a complex recipe. No substitute will do. Ridiculous. He’s still proud of his “best” achievement: Khorkhog, which he, JR and Ranjit spent hours working on a few years ago.

In Our Garden

Oh, and I fell in love with my cousin’s back garden.

So pretty. I’d never associate that with Essex. Not in a million years. To be honest, I wish I had seen that before deciding we would have an annex in our garden. Like so:

As you see, it’s not ready, but it’s coming along all right. It’s at the very back of the long garden. There are some bushes and trees half-way of the garden so unless you look out of a upstairs window, you can’t see the annex. The purpose of it, we keep changing our mind. We swing between “It’s a granny house” and “let’s make it a studio where the mites can’t destroy any more of my paintings”. Occasionally: “let’s make it the mites’ prison.”

Lately though, W has slowly influenced me to see it as the BBQ house. Store a fridge, BBQ stuff, table, wall table, a smoking cupboard to smoke fish or meat, etc so that during summers, we can bring out the BBQ and have people sitting outside around the annex while gnawing on half-cooked BBQ food. Nice idea, but I’m sceptical. He’s still very much into the idea. (He is the cook of the family, remember.)

New Additions to Our Lives

We somehow found ourselves two kittens during our stay in Essex, too. Someone abandoned a box of four kittens on the doorstep of an elderly lady’s home where she has many cats. She felt she couldn’t take on any more so the cousin adopted two and we adopted the other two.

We haven’t decided what to call them, but the oldest mite had already given them names: Bruce (Lee) for the one with white paws, and Ju-jee for the one with dark paws. I don’t know where he got Ju-jee from. He just likes the sound of it. The youngest was upset because he hasn’t had a chance to name one. W told the oldest he can name one, but not both. After a long pouting session, the oldest is now deciding which is his before he’s willing to let the youngest have the other one. Argh. I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to “decide” long enough for the youngest to lose interest. Only then he could have and name both for himself. Crafty git. The kittens are settling in well, as seen here:

The Cat isn’t terribly impressed, though. He’s given them nothing but dismissive glances that swing between ‘meh’ and ‘yup, still meh’.

He looked pissed off when they crawled all over him when he was trying to sleep. Lying there with a half-lidded stare at nothing – to empathise how pissed off he was – while refusing to acknowledge their existence, even when one of their back paws was pressing his face. It was the funniest thing ever.

Snorting in Norfolk 

We stayed at W’s pig farmer friend’s place in Norfolk. My god. The noise. Oink oink. Snort snort. Squeak squeak. Oink oink. Snort snort. Squeak squeak. Oink oink. Snort snort. Squeak squeak. Oink oink. Snort snort. Squeak squeak. All day, all night.

Staying at a pig farm was a bit awkward as well. I don’t eat pork. No bacon, no pork, no anything pig. It was an old Scottish tradition for families not to eat any part of a pig for a couple of centuries. During the 1930s or thereabouts, some families slowly accepted pork as part of their meals, but the rest didn’t. My family is one of the latter. Out of habit, I think.

So when W’s friend and his wife discovered I don’t eat pork, they somehow assumed I was a Muslim. During the first meal, they were eager to learn everything about Islam from me. They looked thoroughly confused when I explained I wasn’t one. From thereon, they subtly tried to find out why I don’t eat pork. “Do you know a lot of Jewish people?”, “You look so exotic. Where are your family from?” and “I wonder how many don’t accept pork? Islamic people, Jewish people, who else…?” with a pointed glance my way.

W put them out of misery by keeping it simple: “She doesn’t like eating pork and bacon.” (I do like eating pork (not bacon – too salty), but I felt guilty each time so I don’t bother.) Both actually said, “Oh. Is that all?” Half of me was hugely amused, and the other half was a bit annoyed. It was blatantly obvious that they associated my refusal to eat pork with my face. Unfortunately after learning that, they tried to get me to try some pig dishes to prove that my dislike was irrational. Apart from this, they were a lovely couple. The mites thoroughly enjoyed the two-day stay.

The Curse of the Chicken Pox

The oldest managed to catch chicken pox anyway, but it was a brief stint. I don’t think it lasted more than two days, in fact. Not even itchy, apparently. Just a faint red rash all over, then puff! It was gone. Lucky git, but I’m relieved it wasn’t bad for him. The youngest had it only a week and a day, thankfully. Not a scar on him. Mine lasted a little over a fortnight. Horrible blisters all over body and face. One friend joked “That’s our revenge. You didn’t have teen acne like the rest of us.” Almost all gone now. Just some remaining scabs and reddened blotches. I’m so relieved it’s past now. Just before we left for Essex, I was asocial. Didn’t want to talk to anyone. I’m not sure if it’s because I was self-conscious of the blisters, or I just needed time alone. Anyhow: Health-wise, 2011 hasn’t been kind. I haven’t been this sick and so often before. Quite scary. Please be kind to me, 2012.

Books… What Books?

I didn’t read a single page, but watched quite a few films. I made a HUGE mistake of watching The Strangers at my cousin’s cottage, which is bang in the middle of nowhere. There were just me and W in the cottage with the mites snoozing upstairs. The film revolves around a young couple staying at a summer house, also in the middle of nowhere, where they are terrorised by three masked people. After the film ended W and I double-checked all windows and doors and in spite of that, we didn’t sleep quite well.

He even commented that for once he wished we were in the US because he’d feel safer with a gun nearby. Guns are still a rarity in the UK, NI, Hong Kong and Japan. I don’t think I have ever lived in a country where guns were part of ordinary houses. My grandparents, being farmers, had shotguns, but I never knew where they hid them. I did have an air gun as part of school sports as it was next to archery, but aside those, I rarely saw a gun in the everyday life of England and Scotland.

Next night we looked through a pile of DVDs to see if there’s any we would like to watch. As soon as he spotted Straw Dogs, he said: “I really need my sleep.”