Posterous theme by Cory Watilo

Ros Curtis

Ros Curtis

Writer and traveller

Desperate measures

Fitball
Is it supposed to hurt? Getting fit I mean. It took me 15 years to get fat but I’m hoping to get fit PDQ.

When my friend Pat told me she was thinking likewise, we trotted off to the leisure centre and signed up for a 16 week fitness course - making a start on the treadmill. 

Such determination is to be commended! After just three minutes my back could stand it no longer and I moved on to the bike.

That didn’t work either because my legs don’t bend very well since the knee ops. 

So there I was sitting on a gym ball like a great elephant trying to balance with just one toe on the floor while everyone else seemed to be jogging, cross training and pumping iron at a manic pace.

Pat didn’t get on much better, after 15 boring minutes on the treadmill she switched to the exercise bike and found her feet wouldn’t reach the pedals and couldn’t balance on the ball for toffee. 

So, not to be defeated we looked up the pool activities and arranged to try the water aerobics the following week. 

It was fun to start with, about 30 of us bounced up and down the pool in time to the music. The buoyancy taking the strain from our bodies. 

I was well into it by the time YMCA came on. But half way through the class the bunny hops, felt like kangaroo leaps.

Knees up, arms down, arms up, stomachs in, stretch backs, point toes, and the non-stop action continued. Those girls at the leisure centres must be mega-fit to give hour upon hour of lessons like that.

In an especially painful and puffed out moment I casually mentioned to all and sundry that Sheila our instructor only needed a small black moustache.

Side stepping through the water should be one of the easiest moves but when the legs don’t connect with the brain it’s not so easy. By the time I have stopped moving to the right, everyone else has turned and is well away to the left and I land up out of sinc.

Eventually the class is over, everyone is pink and smiling and the changing room turns into a hub of chatter as we all shower and change. 

And somehow we realise we’re not puffed out and tired, we feel exhilarated and realise we have enjoyed the last 45 minutes so much that we are hooked.

But as we were leaving I couldn’t believe my ears when one of the ladies told Sheila that I had likened her to Hitler! 

So although I’m really looking forward to the next session I’ll be hiding behind Pat. 

 

 

Kitchen capers

Kitchen
MY kitchen needed a makeover - with just a sink unit, breakfast bar and just three tiny cupboards on the walls - a new kitchen beckoned.

After a few quotes we decided on a planner and chose the doors, worktops, handles, etc but eventually the date arrived and the reality of ‘out with the old and in with the new’ hit home.

It didn’t take long to empty the three small cupboards into boxes and put them into the lounge. And what about all those gadgets we hardly ever use, that lurk on top of the cupboards.

My flat is a dust magnet, at the best of times but after all the banging about it looks like it’s been snowing in the lounge. 

Despite having the ioniser switched on all the time, it hasn’t been able to cope with the extra fallout. But to be fair, I now have the freshest dust in St Mellons.

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What's up doc?

Doc
IT'S about time our GPs started to earn their money. OK we’ve all heard they are understaffed and overworked just like the rest of us, but how long does it take to get a diagnosis? 

They may have passed their anatomy exams but putting two and two together is beyond most of them? And by the time you get past the receptionist for an appointment, you're probably over the worst.

So when the sole of my foot started to shred like a portion of crispy duck, I didn’t bother with the doctor, I went straight to Damian my chiropodist/podiatrist who has been looking after my corns for years. 

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Are you getting enough?

Twitter2
I’m not getting much myself lately.

I can’t remember the last time I had a good laugh. You know the kind where you just can’t stop. 

According to doctors laughter is better than medicine - give me the drugs any time!

I didn’t find it very funny when I had an injection up my nose at the dentist recently and the dentist was the one laughing all the way to the bank when I paid the bill!

Since retiring I’ve noticed that pensioners can be grouchy, especially when parting with their cash at the supermarket.

Although how the Government expect people to exist at all on their measly pension and still smile is beyond me. 

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On the hoof

Horsey1
I dread going to our bank. They never have more than two people at the counter and I've never known there to be less than 15 people waiting. 

I went to get some Euros last week and by the time I got to the head of the queue I was more than narked.

After a long 20 minutes wait, I collected my Euros and the cashier smugly told me how much easier life would be if only I had one of their travel cash cards. I could even transfer money on to it over the internet. Perhaps I would like to apply for one?

"Certainly not," I replied. "I have enough trouble with your debit card, it's useless, I can never read the numbers when ordering over the internet because there’s a hoof in the way.”

“Oh really madam, let me see.” The cashier couldn’t read them either (and she was wearing glasses) she replied: “We will order you a different card without an animal across the numbers. Would you like a new pin number?”

I crabbily replied: “No thank you, I have enough trouble remembering the one I have,” and went off in a huff.

A week later said card arrives, minus the black animal and clearly displaying the numbers.  The accompanying letter told me I could use my old pin number. I was pleased and took it out straight away to play with it.
How embarrassing - at the till in Sainsbury’s my card was refused, also at the cash point. And I headed back to the bank.

I was speechless when they solved the problem - my old pin had been blocked and a new pin number was in the post!

Now how can I stay with a bank who’s left hoof doesn’t know what it’s right hoof is doing?

 

A walk on the whiffy side

Wolfwalk

Have you ever wanted to meet a wolf? Or even wondered what it's like to walk amongst them? 

Me neither, but I know someone who does.I recently met someone who is planning on taking a nature walk with a difference - she is spending the day with a whole pack.

Now I didn’t know you could do that outside of Canada! Did you? Apparently, here in the UK it‘s becoming quite popular, but it’s not for me and Little Red Riding Hood didn’t think much of it either!

I have nothing but admiration for anyone who could stride out surrounded by wolves. And to let any wild animal get a good sniff, is asking to be the main dish for a tasty picnic in the woods. 

  So I’ve done a bit of research on the subject in case any of you fancy a walk on the wild side…

  • Listen carefully to the safety briefing: First of all the wolves are introduced to the walkers - “Good morning wolfy what big teeth you have” - walkers stand with sleeves rolled up, arms outstretched and offer their bunched up fists to the wolves, who may or may not be interested enough to get your scent. 
  • Don’t wear anything with dangly bits: Buttons, toggles and belts flapping about could excite the wolf and tempt him into a quick nibble.
  • No perfume or smelly soap: In fact just don’t wash for a few days beforehand then you can smell like a wolf yourself.
  • At last the handlers set them off across the fields allowing an excellent view of them as they sniff, pee and scratch. Nice!
  • Watch the wolves interact within their environment - rolling in something disgusting before they brush alongside you and rub it off on your new jeans. 
  • There are usually opportunities to see the wolves up close and personal and the wolves may be willing to be stroked on the tummy.  A firm hand is advised, but don’t tickle, they don’t like that. You can try this under the supervision of a handler. 
  • Do not pat them on the head as this can also allow you to lose a few fingers although it would make a good frame for Animals Do The Funniest Things.
  • Throughout the walk volunteers will be on hand to answer any questions and hopefully they will have a first aid kit.
  • If you are lucky you may get to hear a wolf's howl: The wolves will often call to the other packs back in their enclosures, to set up an ambush on your return. 

Owwwwwwooooooooooooooo! 

Howling_wolf
 Click on  http://ukwct.org.uk and hit the 'walk' tab.

 

Rain, rain go away...

Lightningboats
OMG! Have you seen the weather forecast for this week? And I'm supposed to be joining the family on a cabin cruiser on the Norfolk Broads tomorrow.

The bad weather seems to follow me around. It's always the same when I'm thinking of taking a break. I've had quite a few wet holidays in the past  and 2010 was the worst year so far.

It started in the January with snow and ice for a weekend break at Warner's Lakeside Coastal Village at Hayling Island. Then in February we left a sunny Cardiff on a coach trip to Chester, had torrential rain for two days, and returned to sunshine!

A month later joining the family at a caravan at Burnham on Sea we couldn't believe the size of the hailstones - they actually hurt. Then a spur-of-the-moment jaunt to the Quantock Hills finished up with more snow in April. 

It was wet in Minehead in May when we watched our grandson sliding across the waterlogged pitch at a football tournament.

We had showers in Suffolk in June, then more rain spoiled our plans every time we planned a day out with the grandkids during the summer hols and we ended up going to the cinema most weeks.

When we drove to the Yorkshire Dales to visit my Aunty Myrtle in October, it was so foggy we got lost several times arriving three hours late for lunch. And my nose almost froze when we went back for her 90th birthday party in November, bringing the sub-zero weather back with us to Cardiff.

And it didn't stop there - we booked a week in Corfu for the following spring and left Cardiff in brilliant sun, landing on a dull and cloudy evening. After a spectacular lightning storm that night, I was sure there would be sunshine the next morning.

But I was wrong! After FIVE wet days stranded at the hotel we were so bored we booked a full day coach tour of the island for the sixth day.

You guessed it - we woke up to a bright sunshiny day, the air con wasn't working and the coach was very hot.

The day started off well enough until we picked up an elderly couple at the next village who sat behind us. After 15 minutes or so we heard loud burping noises, interrupted only by the occasional squeak of a fart. I thought I would burst from trying not to laugh.

After half an hour the courier went across with a bottle of water for the passenger and the coach rumbled on. Then the elderly lady began to vomit all over herself - with acoustics! 

The smell was so bad the courier called an unshceduled stop and took her off to freshen up while the driver tried to clean her seat (and the back of mine).

We all had to stifle a giggle when the courier ushed the doddery old girl back on the bus sporting a brand new T-shirt with 'I LUV Corfu' in pink glitter across her chest.

Despite getting the wrong weather on every occasion, we always get a good sprinkling of laughs.

 

What's under our winter woollies then?

THE weather has been teasing us with sunshine and we're all waiting for the spring.

We'll all be getting ready to emerge from our shapeless baggy jumpers and thick woolly tights, as beautiful healthy examples of the human race.

And to all intents and purposes our menfolk could be forgiven for thinking we've been perfect all winter long underneath our hats, scarves and Ugg boots.

Well, the aim is to fool the boys - so we take stock in front of the dreaded full-length mirror. Hmmm... looking a bit pasty are we? Especially those milk-bottle legs. Better get a spray tan or some tinted body lotion to slap on after we've shaved the stray hairs off.

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Little sew and sew

Last weekend I dusted off my trusty sewing machine to make a fancy dress outfit.

I must have lost my touch because instead of a costume fit for Aladdin's princess, all it needed was some shocking pink platform shoes and she could have gone as a 70s disco diva.

My sewing machine has made periodical appearances over the years, helping out my daughters with curtains, cushion covers and the like. Give me anything square or oblong and I'm a whizz on the machine, but turning fabric into fashion is beyond me.

I remember when my granddaughter Caitlin was six she had a toy sewing machine for her birthday.

Obviously, it was down to nanny to show her how to use it so she brought it with her for a sleepover at my house and we entered the world of dolly fashions.

She had her own ideas for the dolls outfit - things had certainly changed since I had a doll. Mine used to wear bonnets, cardis and little booties all knitted by my older sister and it cried 'mama' when I tipped it over.

Barbie-dolls
But Caitlin's doll was a teenage Barbie. It took hours to make the paper pattern and pin it to Caitlin's chosen material then with great concentration she cut it out, her jaws chomping with every stroke of the scissors. She did a great job with the pinking shears.

I realised just how much she enjoyed cutting out when I saw the hole in her sheet the next morning when I was making the beds!

Eventually we got down to the business of figuring out how a toy sewing machine works (nothing like a real one I might add) and it did the job brilliantly. 

Caitlin was delighted with the finished outfit, and we'd even made a matching pair of socks out of the scraps. Just one snag... in our haste to begin we forgot to measure the doll first.

So if anyone out there has a hunchbacked, one-armed Barbie with club feet, I've got just the outfit for her.

 

Missing mum

IT'S Mother's Day again and I still miss her.

I always smile when I think of my mum. Although I didn't smile much when I thought she was an old fashioned fuddyduddy. But as I grew up and had children of my own, together we would try to make sense of toddlers tantrums and teenage fads.

She did a fair bit of lip pursing and tutting, so she must have disapproved of my approach to parenting at times, and I expect her cronies at the Townswomen's Guild heard them all. For 40 or so years my mum and her friends drifted into old age and put the world to rights every Wednesday night.

A year or so after her death I found myself grinning on the bus after some amusing incident and thinking "I can't wait to tell mum when I get home".

She loved a good joke or a bit of scandal like the time when she and her friend, both staunch churchgoers discovered that the local vicar was gay. Her friend, a spinster, was shocked to the core. Not my mum, she was curious and asked me what exactly did gays do in private.

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