So after having el parentos over for dinner last night, I finally switched on old reliable and found an old friend on line...

C!

Now Mister C is an old friend of mine from the ill gotten uni days in London. I hear from him occasionally as he's been studying and has his own life to be getting on with. However, he was back on-line last night with a vengeance, a new job and another woman in a msg window.

Atta boy!

However he did ask something that others have been asking me for some time, however in a most eloquent fashion...

Callum says:

How's you & Girlpants?

Sim Haskell-Dowland says:

He’s fine - still trying to get him into man knickers

Callum says:

I never did (dare to) ask why you call him Girlpants!

Sim Haskell-Dowland says:

He always used to wear mens briefs which looked more like my knickers than a blokes. He's now in boxers!

Callum says:

boxers/trunks are the way forward, y-fronts are just conceptually-crusty, no guys wear briefs!

Callum says:

So long as he's not wearing thongs...

Callum says:

Or yours...

Sim Haskell-Dowland says:

Erm...No to that last one. And I’ve been telling him for years!

Callum says:

Maybe he's gay, and just married you as cover!

Far be it for me to debate my husbands sexuality on a blog.... But no C, there's no chance of that last one being even a smidgen true. However I did have to try and explain to mother in law and Girlpants as to why I was folded over in laughter for half an hour!

So why is he called Girlpants. Well, it stems back to his dress sense when we were first going out. This included yeti jackets, jeans that stopped at his knees, jumpers that left fashion in the 1970's and knickers.

But it didn't just stop there...

I know girls - who could resist such a man...?

But it wasn't until, after much nagging and changing of the underwear, that the nickname prevailed. Sitting in bed, drinking tea on a Saturday morning, a cartoon came on the box.

Wayne and Lucien. Where the two played and bickered. Wayne being naughty and adventurous - Lucien wanting to sniff flowers and doing other girlie things. And therefore being labelled Girlpants.

It just seemed apt to me.

Now those days of briefs have gone with their 1970's paisley patterns. And now, we have Calvin's in their place.

But if he thinks that the nickname will disappear in the wilderness of time, then he's sadly mistaken...

So Girlpants mum & I have been looking at winter walking jackets for the last week as she's from up north and I just know that Girlpants is going to insist on dragging me out to the moors some more. We've been shopping around - spotted some fine jackets in TKMaxx the other week, Trago the next and even tried some of the more rather expensive outdoor shops where you just know that you're going to pay that extra pretty penny.

Eventually though, we decided the the TKMaxx option with the removable fleece inside of the jacket was the best option at the princely sum of £21.99. So off we trundled once more, only to find that in the time honoured tradition of trying to get the consumer to buy more tatt, they had moved things around. Eventually, we once again found the jackets. But all was not as it was before.

They had removed the fleeces. And were selling them separately.

And the jackets were now £80!

Business sense? Yes

Ethics? No

Flabbergasted? Yes

I guess that I'll just remain cold...

When I was a child, the Catholic schools that I went to made me do a number of things that Blair probably wouldn't let them do today. The first (and worst) was the abduction of children to sing at the funerals of elderly people within the parish. This was either to make up the numbers of mourners or that the person who had died had made the request to be sung to by angels as they were interred. They couldn't find angels so went for the next best thing - 7 year olds!

It was pretty scary seeing these coffins at such a young age, especially as they were very old people that we didn't really knew. But singing was required and singing we performed. At the worst we got nightmares, at best, we got an entire morning off from classes!

Which leads to the next thing - singing. I wouldn't say that I had a fantastic voice, but trying to make me as a child sing Ave Maria to the rafters did nothing for my confidence. It wasn't because I was singled out as a fantastic and exceptional singer at that age. It was the fact that it was the annual Catholic singing competition at Buckfast Abbey. The restored church would be peaceful and silent until the hordes of unwilling participants swarmed over the abbey to take their places in the pew and sing to their teachers urgings. Such delectable sounds were only broken by the sound of a tape recorder that my mother had sneaked into the church, taping the sound of her children to send to their grandmother back home.

I blame my childhood for my bad knees. It's all the kneeling and genuflecting you had to do as part of the mass service. Nothing to do with the fact that I've shot my knee joints to hell. So I was quite surprised to be look forward to going back to the abbey for a visit in the depressing and cold rain.

It's changed from my childhood. I always thought that it was bigger, but maybe it's grown less as I've grown taller. The abbey church was filled with noise as they were renovating the west wing elevation for safety, and whilst little elderly people started flashing their cameras around, the chapel was encased in double glazing and the monks allowed themselves back into the enclave using their swipe cards, Girlpants couldn't help but note that my religion had gone commercial.

Which is probably why we bought so much at the gift shop.

This is my own fault.

I got Girlpants to take the week off work, mainly because his mum was coming down. But now they are all settled in the house, I'm left with a dilemma.

What do we do for the rest of the week??

The five day forecast says that the weather is going to be dire, the National Trust is basically closed, and after waiting an hour to have a go a tobogganing to avoid the mad children, we need to be careful to avoid half term activity traps.

So I sit here. Thinking. And thinking.

Yesterday we went tobogganing and then trekked on the moor. I finally managed to fly and kite and even got it to dive bomb Girlpants - but after several failed attempts to get the kite off and it spectacularly crashing to it's end, the stunt kite is looking slightly worse for wear. Especially when the wind took it so high that the string broke and muggins here had to chase it. Into a pit of horse dung.

So today was gentile. Today we went to St Mellions for wine tasting. And Girlpants had fun. The thing is, usually he tells me that he'll drive so our resident alcoholic (moi) can partake in a quibble of beer. But I wanted him to try the wines today to see which one he liked - so he had his little testing book, ranking system and glass and he dashed between the tables trying at first the ones he liked, and then after eating a cornish ostrich pasty, the most expensive.

The man is no fool

How to dig your own grave baby...

Girlpants - Are you sure that I didn't come here with you?

Sim - Positive. First time I met you it was all you could do to stop talking about your car

Girlpants - Maybe it wasn't you.

Sim - You think?

Girlpants - Maybe it was Alistair.

Girlpants - You know how to toboggan, don't you love?

Sim - What gave you that idea?

Girlpants - We've been here before. We came with Stu & Jayne remember?

Sim - No. That must have been you with your other girlfriend...

Now let's see... There was birthday cake

Tiramasu

Strawberries

Bread & butter pudding

Chocolates

And then he rested for seconds...

After a large night at Tanners and the big night of Delia's fish pie and wine, we got up bright and early, ate breakfast

then switched on the box.

And watched

and watched.

It was all we could to to get up and switch the kettle on.

And brush the hair and wash.

And then drive to le Chateau Billinghurst to wat and play triv.

It's a hard life, this half term melarkey...

So talkative sister was in Sainsburys yesterday morning, wheeling her trolley about half an aisle behind dad. Who went shopping in his favourite hat.

So needless to say talkative sister was shocked when the woman in front of her turned to her friend and said nastily...

FNW - I see the neighbourhoods gone downhill - they've let the cowboys out.

Now Lyds was not impressed. But I was with her, when within a second of hearing that, she stated in a rather loud voice...

Lyds - At least my cowboy wearing hat father's arse is five times smaller that yours you cow.

Atta girl. Soon we'll have you breathing fire...

Earlier this week, husband of talkative sister got the news that one of his former employees passed away at the age of 31. This was unexpected news which hit the boys pretty hard, especially given the guys age. So to show their respect, Alan was nominated to represent the company at the funeral.

Dressed in sombre attire, he drove down to the crematorium and politely introduced himself to other mourners in the congregation. And once sat down in the chapel, he sang hymns and celebrated the life on the sadly deceased.

Whose name was Alice.

It was at this point that he realised that he was at the wrong funeral. He knew it but couldn't leave. The family didn't know it but were pleased that this well dressed young man was there to say goodbye to their loved one. Made them feel special and safe.

Until he bade them farewell outside of the chapel...then strode straight back into the chapel again when the second entourage approached.

And you thought this could only happen in Six Feet Under.