Candy is dandy

Winter storm's a-comin'. I went out and bought driveway grit and a snow shovel. The old guy behind me in the checkout queue told me, a little disparagingly, that I wouldn't be needing it as we won't be getting more than six inches of snow, if that. Well it doesn't hurt to be prepared, and anyway to an English person six inches sounds significant enough.

We were out tonight with all the Exiles, experiencing a local parade. It featured a few old fire trucks and a rather handsome trolleybus, all bedecked with twinkly lights. Also a completely unadorned sewerage truck which added a certain je ne sais quoi.

We got to see our building surveyor doing his winter job - or at any rate, we saw a bearded rosy-cheeked fellow dressed in red handing out candy.

Candy featured rather heavily in the whole proceedings. Members of the parade were handing the stuff out willy-nilly, too, even throwing it onto the road so that small children could ignore all they'd ever been taught about road safety as they dashed into the traffic to pick it up.

Don't worry, not really. There wasn't any traffic.

Luckily the children were all presented with plastic fire chief helmets, which made great candy receptacles. And when these were full the children piled the goodies into the Classic Red Wagon that the Exile had sensibly brought along, perhaps with this contingency in mind.

Mind blowing

So, what was I up to in Schenectady Museum last Sunday?

I was trying to move an object using only the power of my mind.

A challenge too far, surely?

The game was called 'Mind Ball'. The black band pressed a set of censors against my forehead, picking up voltage variations in my brain and connecting them to the ball in the tube. The idea was that if I relaxed and created alpha-theta 'brainwaves' the ball would roll away from me. If I made the energised beta kind, by thinking active thoughts, the ball would roll towards me.

You may speculate amongst yourselves about how successful I was.

The game could be played competitively, with a person connected at either end of the tube trying to roll the ball in opposite directions; or collaboratively, the two players trying to combine their thoughts to keep the ball in one place.

Different members of the family took different approaches to the game. The Boy jogged energetically on the spot to activate his thoughts.


And the Girl...

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

It's been a quiet, aimless sort of day. The Boy woke me in the middle of the night, feeling poorly and running a temperature. A game of musical beds ensued. Everyone got back to sleep, eventually.

The Boy was up again bright and early, protesting his wellness. He was desperate to get to school because there's a book fair on and there were things he wanted to buy TODAY. I wasn't convinced he should go, especially when just as the bus was due his temperature appeared to shoot up suddenly. I then realised, too late for the bus, that this was because he'd been sitting on one of the forced air heating outlets.

But in any case he remained a little warm and I kept him at home. I've lost count of how many Thomas the Tank Engine stories I've read today. He seems fine again now, although for some reason he has made up his bed on the landing (I've just noticed).

A PS to yesterday's posting: in case anyone should wonder, the geeky widget tells me very little about you. I know the number of visits from fairly unspecific locations - at most a city name - but I don't know names or email addresses of visitors or anything like that. Unless you choose to contact me, on any given day you really do know a whole lot more about me ('anonymous' though I try to be) than I do about you.

It's all about you

I don't much like net curtains. I see it as the public duty of house-holders to allow other people to glance through their sitting room windows and catch a glimpse of their lives.

Those of you familiar with our house back home will know that it fronts directly onto the street, so our un-netted windows offer quite a good view to passers-by inclined to look in. They might not know me, but for the briefest moment they get to see my world, tidy or otherwise (usually otherwise) and judge it as they may. Sometimes, if I happen to be sitting there on the sofa, I'll look back at them and maybe give a little smile and a wave - a friendly gesture that really psyches people out.

This whole blog thing is rather similar. The un-netted window to my daily life is available to any passing internet user.

I happen to know, thanks to a geeky widget, that there have been visitors (mainly accidental tourists) to this site from ten different countries, including Mexico and the Philippines. The latter didn't stay long and they haven't been back, though Kawasaki Jack in Japan comes by often - thank you! Most of the regular traffic (57% of the total) is based in the UK. By the way, I do appreciate those of you who (if I may return to the sitting room metaphor) give a tap on the window in the form of a comment.

I also have a few regular visitors State-side (hello Exile!), some of whom I don't believe I've ever met. If any of you in that category are reading today, please don't be put off by this smile and wave in your direction - if I minded you looking in I'd draw the curtains!

To finish this 101st blog entry, a quick reminder that there's still time to enter the latest caption competition...

Booting up

The children had an extra day off school today, so we all took the Man into work. Then we went out for breakfast at a 'proper' cafe with a waiter and waitress who called the Girl 'Miss' as they served her pancakes and syrup, which was all rather grown-up and special. The Boy meanwhile ate dry bran flakes straight out of a packet, which detracted from the elegance of the occasion a tiny bit, but no-one else seemed to mind so neither did we.

The task of the day was to buy snow boots for the kids. The Boy was more positive about this than I'd anticipated. He was still chortling to himself about 'snow butts'. Although it took him a while to make up his mind (he truly is our son) he did finally plump for a pair. Far from resisting wearing them, he has now given up on trainers (sneakers) in favour of the new snow boots, which does look a little comical as he has also just given up on trousers in favour of shorts.

This evening I accompanied Exile #2 to a meeting of the local babysitting cooperative. When I told the Boy where I was going he said 'Why do you want to get to know babysitters? You never go out.' Think you answered your own question there, Boy.

Mind games

Today we found ourselves in Schenectady (sk'nektadi), half an hour or so from home.

Schenectady is a city of many inventions and firsts, examples of which can be found in its rather diverting museum. To name but a few: the first commercial electron microscope (of particular - geddit? - interest to the Man); a dog-powered butter churn; silly putty. Another claim to fame is the zip (postal) code of the once huge local employer, General Electric. It's 12345.

The Boy took this photo of an electric diesel engine outside the museum and was eager to share its smiley face with you all.





The Man also took some photos. I'll explain what's going on in this one once you've had a couple of days to offer your own explanations and/or captions.

But me no butts

We don't slavishly copy everything the Exiles do, honest. We really had, quite independently, planned our own trip to Peebles Island yesterday, then the friend rang and we changed our arrangements. So that's how we ended up going today.

It was fun, in a chilly and slightly bleak way. As islands go there was a disappointing lack of ruined castles and secret tunnels, never mind treasure, but there were cliffs and waterfalls and we saw wild woodpeckers. There were also lots and lots of leaves to scuffle through, though none on the trees. Our faces grew pink with cold, and at some point the children's hands dropped off, so at least their refusal to wear gloves ceases to be an issue.


Seriously, though, it was really cold. It took the whole half hour journey home in the car with the heating turned up before feeling returned to my toes. Guess I'll be needing snow boots myself soon (or 'snow butts' as the Boy accidentally called them tonight, then laughed so much he nearly stopped breathing).

Deal or no deal?

Lest all the uncommercialised purity of Thanksgiving should start a dangerous trend, the stores have devised a cunning scheme to get everyone back out spending as quickly as possible. It's called Black Friday. Basically it's a massive sale day with the best bargains available between four (that's four) and ten in the morning - almost before the tofurky and pies have had a chance to settle. I gather it is quite a bun fight. The most determined shoppers hunt in packs, communicating with walkie-talkies.

Not much of a shopper at the best of times, I let the day slip by without spending so much as a cent. This will do nothing to bolster the US economy, which according to the media is heading for a big recession. It certainly will be if people decide to believe what they read and hear in the media. Then the media will no doubt feel vindicated in having propagated such an accurate self-fulfilling prophecy. Even National Public Radio has been pushing the message, subliminally, delivering the latest gloomy news from the Stock Exchange over a subtle piano version of Stormy Weather.

One of the Girl's classmates rang to see if she was free, and we ended up all meeting for a walk at Five Rivers ('the most boring place in the world' groaned the Girl. Guess what, we had fun there LIKE WE ALWAYS DO!!). Then we moved on to the friend's house where the grown-ups drank tea and talked politics and parenthood while the kids set about sorting through a gazillion Pokemon cards.

Fully thankful

In the interests of cultural research (and also because I'm a last minute kinda gal), last night (the eve of Thanksgiving) I went to the supermarket to see what pre-holiday shopping is like. I reckon Americans must be much better at preparing for their major feasts than Brits, because although the shop was busier than usual there wasn't that air of frenzy you get on Christmas Eve in Tesco, people all glazed-eyed and filling up their trolleys like it's their last chance to buy food for a fortnight. Maybe Americans are just more used to the idea of shops never being shut for more than 24 hours.

Apart from being an excuse to "Gobble 'til you wobble" (according to a sign I saw somewhere), Thanksgiving seems to be quite a pure and uncommercialised celebration - surprising for such a commercially driven nation. No over-the-top decorating, no institutionalised gift giving. Just families, of all and no faiths, getting together to share a meal.

We were very happy to be invited to share Thanksgiving with an American family, friends of the Exiles who were also at the party. We were made very welcome and tucked into a hearty main course followed by a slightly daunting array of pies. Then we joined in a card game called Quao (sounds like 'cow'), which was fun and silly.

As our hosts explained, it may not have been a 'typical' American Thanksgiving, it's just what they happen to do in their family. But I expect every family has its own traditions and that's the point, really. Whatever, we were thankful to be there, as we are thankful to be here in America enjoying this whole adventure.

"Sick as a turkey"

The Man writes...anyone who saw England's 3-2 defeat to Croatia today might like to consider how frustrating it was to "watch" the events unfold "live" by text on the internet. On the one occasion I phoned someone who was able to watch it on TV to express my relief at England's equalizer, our conversation was interrupted by Croatia scoring their third. Maybe this means I'm the one who's responsible for the result? In any case, it's clear now that we should all have been more thankful last year when England got as far as the World Cup Quarter Final.

I intend to release some of my disappointment tomorrow by getting up early and hunting a tofurky for Thanksgiving Dinner. Note the makers claim that "if you tear a piece of Tofurky you will notice that it shears at a 45 degree angle, like meat, not at 90 degrees like other products." So I don't expect any complaints from non-vegetarians. After all, what more can you ask for from a roast?

By the way, for the benefit of UK readers, the point of the day is not to give thanks that we weren't born a turkey. The first Thanksgiving dinner was apparently in Plymouth, New England in 1621, where the Pilgrim pioneers celebrated their first harvest and the fact that there was a local Native American who was extremely helpful and happened to speak excellent English!

Thank you for the music

Well I don't know. The weekend seems to have come round terribly fast...

Ah, no, it just feels like Friday. The children have broken up for Thanksgiving, after a 'Grandfriends Day' at school. Since they have no grandparents or other special friends handy at the moment, the Man and I acted as such and attended a very good concert performed by all the different year groups. This included an aleatoric composition - kind of a make-it-up-as-you-go-along piece which on paper really didn't look too promising. However there was a bit more to it than that and it was actually the best performance of all.

The Man then had to go back to work, but I stuck around at school to do some classroom activities with the Girl and Boy. Although we had the option of going home early, to my surprise they didn't want to so we were there until kicking out time. Then they were thoroughly disappointed to find out I was driving them home instead of them going on the bus. Though I'm slightly sad that I now come second-best to a bus, mostly I'm just glad they like it so much, given that they have to ride it nearly every day.

Oh, and it snowed last night, with a trace remaining this morning in spite of the driving rain.

Half bath

As noted in previous postings, things in America tend to be big. Big, big, big. Quickly one's expectations adjust so that supersize everything begins to seem normal.

Then you go to take a bath, and all your expectations are confounded.

Please, America, what's with the tiny bathtubs?

In Japan there are tiny baths too, but they are deep and designed so that you can sit in them with your shoulders submerged. British baths, of course, are long enough for most people to lie down in.

But standard American baths are, well, they're dinky. If you sit up in them half your body gets cold. If you attempt to lie down either your knees stick out or you have to contort yourself into the shape of one of those poor tortured souls dug out of an ancient peat bog. This has been my experience, anyway, and I am a not particularly tall person.

So if there are any Americans reading I would love to hear from you. What's it all about? I simply don't believe it's a water conservation thing. Is there some rite of passage whereby people literally grow out of bath-taking and must progress to showers at the age of eight?

I'd love to know. I'd love a proper bath even more. Just once in a while. *Sigh*

Ice. Screams. Cones.

Dragged the kids, kicking and screamimg, over to Five Rivers where they spent a very excited hour creating a log-jam of pine cones in a little stream and we all admired the now completely frozen lake (compare with last Sunday). Even the Boy (I hate Five Rivers!) asked 'Can we come here again next week?' though he'll deny it seven days from now, I'm sure.

More fun later down at the public library (yes, it opens on Sundays). The kids made their book choices, and then we discovered the audio section. Hooray! The Girl has been listening to Famous Five cds on car journeys and nearly every bedtime since we got here ('I say, dirty litle gypsy child, you're nearly as good as a boy! Take a swig of ginger pop and then we'll have yet another generic adventure in a tunnel...'), and was ready for a change. As were we all.

She plumped for a couple of Beverly Cleary's Ramona stories. I had never come across these in England but we've read lots of them here, where they are classics - and with good reason. I'd highly recommend them for children aged between about five and nine (and their parents) - very funny books, and very perceptive. Both our kids love them and so do I.

Village people

Q: How is Linton like Manhattan?

A: In more ways than you'd think...

This we found out from a new friend who spent many years in New York City (East Village) before moving here, and still considers it home.

We were comparing what we miss from our previous lives, and I was surprised that her list was almost identical to mine. Apart from friends and family, obviously, we both miss being able to walk to places instead of driving - it meant running into friends and acquaintances every time we stepped out of the house; passing the time of day with shopkeepers, librarians or just anyone really; the knowledge that neighbours would look out for us.

To sum up, both a village like Linton and a city like New York have a strong sense of community, and that is a special thing. It came as a bit of a surprise to hear NYC described as a friendly place, but in fact everyone lives so close to each other there that a degree of familiarity is inevitable. And I guess it must attract the sort of people who like other people.

The Albany area is not at all an unfriendly place, but for various reasons people seem to live rather separate lives. Maybe it's the climate, or the fact that houses tend to be detached and fairly widely spaced. I'm certain car culture plays a part.

But what do you think? What makes a group of individuals sharing a location into a community?

Listening matters

Every Friday morning on National Public Radio there's a feature I listen out for: StoryCorps.

StoryCorps is the brainchild of Dave Isay. He has set up recording booths, two in New York City and others that tour the country. Anyone can book a session in a booth, but the idea is that you share the session with a friend or family member and for forty minutes you talk and listen to each other. Often quite remarkable stories emerge as a result. You get to keep a copy of your conversation on cd, and another copy goes to the Library of Congress. Thus a fascinating archive of the personal histories of ordinary American people is being created.

Each week NPR presents three-minutes from one of these conversations - audio snapshots of human experience. It is nearly always interesting, often moving, and serves as a reminder that every person we encounter has a story to tell. We should all take more time to listen to each other.

If you have the time and inclination, you can listen to StoryCorps podcasts here. You might want to keep a hankie handy for some of them.

Bog clog blog

First of all (though I’d be amazed if they were reading this) I want to apologise to the couple huddled under an umbrella whom I drove past near the Man’s work this morning. I know I’m now an SUV driver and a scourge on society, but I honestly didn’t see that 3 foot deep puddle at the side of the road which I plunged through, soaking you both. Sorry, and I hope you haven’t contracted pneumonia.

And now an apology to my regular readers for blogging about toilets yet again. It must be something to do with my cultural heritage. Anyway, this time your help is required…

With our new house in mind I was in Home Depot (pron. Deepo) today, checking out paint charts and fending off persistently helpful sales staff (Thank you, I’m just looking. No seriously, I really am just looking), and I happened to wander up the bathroom fixtures and fittings aisle.

There was a toilet there which boasted being ‘Virtually Clog-free!’ – somehow not as reassuring a claim as I think it was meant to be, given our earlier experiences of US plumbing. But the sign on the toilet went on to state that you could ‘Flush a bucketful of golf balls in just one flush!’

So I need your suggestions please: Under what circumstances might I want to flush a bucketful of golf balls down a toilet? Really, I should like to know.

Or maybe you have your own flushed away story that you would like to share, before we (ahem) shut the lid on this whole topic.

Snow hope

We're gearing up for snow, which is forecast for the weekend. I bought the Boy some fleece-lined waterproof gloves today but when I showed them to him he hurled them away in a rage. And apparently the vests (A-shirts) I got him recently aren't the right sort, and he won't wear long-sleeved shirts or a hat of any kind.

What's he going to say when I present him with snow-boots and snow-pants?

Say cheese

The other day we were in a Subway, the sort where you buy sandwiches. It wasn't our first choice of eatery, but everywhere else was full.

Anyway, I ordered a tuna sandwich. Then I remembered what country I live in now and ordered a toona sandwich. Ah! Now we were getting somewhere!

Did I want a 6" or a foot long? Did I want it toasted or not? What did I want with it? There was no end of salad options and dressings to choose from. Then the assistant asked Did I want cheese with it?

What?? Cheese???? Of course I don't want cheese - it's a fish sandwich for goodness sake!!! was (fortunately) not what I replied. I just shook my head, looking puzzled.

For I have since learnt that it is nigh on impossible to buy a sandwich here without cheese. I had lunch with the Man today in a rather posher sandwich place and the options were: ham and cheese, turkey and cheese, chicken and cheese, roasted vegetables with hummous and cheese. Granted they were all speciality cheeses (mozzarella, Swiss, goat's etc) but there was no getting away from it, every sandwich on the menu came with cheese.

By the way, I'm told that should you ever find yourself in a Subway just wanting a cheese sandwich, the thing to do would be to order a Veggie Delight. Without the vegetables.

I am a cider drinker

Veteran's Day - no school.

The Girl had a play-date with a classmate. He lives within 15 minutes' scootering distance of our rented house, so it made a change to go calling without needing to drive. I've been told nothing about what they got up to for three hours, but I gather they had fun.

Meanwhile the Boy and I did a bit of tidying up and supermarket shopping. Then I experimented by making warmed apple cider, which I'd been served for the first time yesterday. Apple cider is nothing like the beverage popular in the West Country (oo-ahr-oo-ahr-ay). It isn't at all alcoholic for a start, it's just thickly pressed apple juice, very cloudy. It's readily available and inexpensive round here because we are in apple-growing country. Heated in a pan with a few cloves, a stick of cinnamon and a sprinkling of nutmeg it makes a great winter drink.


The rest of the day we've just been loafing around indoors because it's cold out: reading, knitting, playing (and/or attempting to cheat at) board games, and making Thomas trains out of empty boxes - including a rather nice wheelchair-accessible Clarabel-the-coach, the Boy's own design.

Thin ice

Every weekend we go for a little hike - lovely family time together outdoors! Every weekend the children make a huge fuss about this, refusing to get in the car at one end or out at the other, until their parents are in a thoroughly bad mood. But lo! every weekend we all enjoy ourselves in the end.

The highlights of today's hike at Five Rivers were the partly frozen lake - the kids loved examining the thin ice at the edges; the frosty boardwalks - mini skating rinks; and the bird tables so busy with customers that you could get right up close to blue jays, nuthatches and woodpeckers and they didn't seem even to notice.

Later we visited the home of one of the Boy's classmates. For the kids it was a great play-date, while for the grown-ups there was interesting conversation and delicious pecan pie. A happy adventure for everyone.

'Luckily no-one was hurt'

The Boy has been in full creative mode today. He started by perfecting this original but precarious train layout. Then he moved on to re-enacting near-life-size scenes from the life and times of Thomas the Tank Engine.

The latter has involved most of the kitchen furniture being connected up with lengths of string, blobs of blutak and strips of sticky tape to form engine sheds, oil delivery points and who knows what else. Since the kitchen is not only the place where we cook and eat but also serves as a through-way to the sitting room, this has caused a certain amount of inconvenience for the rest of us. Plus we have all had to suffer the Boy's frustration every time a piece of string has broken loose or the sticky tape has fallen off. An artistic temperament can be difficult to live with.

The day culminated with a dress rehearsal of Thomas's Birthday Show, a theatrical extravaganza featuring musical numbers and audience participation. The plot is just as scant and only marginally shorter than the show we went to see at the Palace Theatre, but the writer/director/performer is very proud of his work. No doubt he'll be wanting to discuss film rights tomorrow.

Santa's day job revealed

The house buying process continues apace. Yesterday came the survey.

The surveying system is so much better here than in the UK. You don't just wait for an expensive report telling you that you need the electrics/plumbing/roof looked at separately at extra cost. We got to inspect the house alongside the surveyor, which meant that he could explain to us the workings of unfamiliar equipment (furnace, air-con, sump pump, reversible ceiling fans, heatalator) as well as pointing out anything requiring attention.

Our guy came highly recommended. With his beard, rosy cheeks and twinkly eyes he seemed comfortingly familiar - just who was it he reminded me of? And did we really see those deer loitering in the neighbouring yard? Anyway. His voice was so gentle and mellifluous that even if he'd told us the house was riddled with dry-rot and infested with vermin I'd have just smiled and nodded and lapped it up. But fortunately he found little cause for concern, just a few relatively minor repairs to be done.

Next task, this evening, was a meeting with a financial advisor to discuss mortgage arrangements. Here again the system is somewhat different to that at home. Put simply we will be signing up for a 3-year A.R.M. with zero points, adjusted to T Bill +3, and we'll be escrowing our tax. So that's good. I think.

An observation on the human condition

'The problem is,' said the Girl as I went in for the second time to try and get her up for breakfast, 'that bed is so untempting at bedtime, but so tempting in the morning.'

She's right. That is the problem.

I mean, how many times have I stayed up way past my bedtime watching the Travel Channel's 'World's Most Unique McDonalds'?

Well, ok, only one time. You have to admit there's something horribly fascinating about a man who devotes all his leisure time to visiting McDonalds restaurants around the world (he's been to nearly 12,000 to date).

Then in the morning it's so hard to drag myself out of bed to make breakfasts and packed lunches and say to the children thirty-six times get-your-shoes-on-you're-going-to-miss-that-bus-one-of-these-days, when instead I could be lying back and listening to the interminable national weather round-up on NPR (because who doesn't need to know what's happening weather-wise in Arizona of a Thursday morning?).

But what finally gets me up and about and pulling on my woolly socks is the thought of all those amusing Comments that'll be waiting for me when I switch on the computer...


Here's someone else's approach to the whole bed issue.

Wry in air

The Man writes just got back this evening from another trip to Washington. Luckily I had a window seat for a night flight over Manhattan. Fascinating.

Internal flights are fairly relaxed here. On my last flight out the Captain's greeting was as follows:

"Good afternoon, this is the Captain speaking, and I want you to know that I love you all and that this is my first flight...

...of the day"

and:

"I was fired by my last airline 24 years ago for having a personality.

Tell the person next to you how much you love them, even if you've never met them before. The world is so much better that way."

He received a fairly muted round of applause, but gets full marks for effort. (In case you're wondering - No, I didn't, but I was in a row of 3 on my own.)

Casting my mind back, I can't think of any other times when humour has been used during plane announcements, although I did witness a proposal of marriage once. A colleague swears he was on a flight when during the Captain's pre-landing announcement someone in the background was heard to say that they were out of fuel! The Captain came on again later to explain that it wasn't critical.

I expect some of our readers have some interesting airplane stories...

Sweets from strangers

There have been local elections today. Several candidates called at the house in recent days and started engaging in friendly chat, until they realised we weren't eligible to vote and then they couldn't be seen for dust. Someone came by yesterday and left a plastic bag hanging on the front doorknob - a bag full of campaign literature, Tootsie Rolls (toffees) and a single lollipop. That lollipop caused such controversy in our household that frankly I wouldn't have voted for the candidate responsible even if I could have.

According to a book I've been reading with the Girl, lollipops are also known here as 'suckers'...

Roundabout route

Dropped the Man off at the airport again (another trip to Washington) and after a bit of shopping took a roundabout route home - in more ways than one.

For some time workmen have been adding extra road and roundabouts, or 'circles' as they call them here, on a route I often find myself on when I want to call in at my preferred supermarket. The circles have only just become fully roundable (you know what I mean) with all the new bits of road finally open to traffic, so I was quite excited to bypass part of my usual route and approach the supermarket from another direction. The only problem was there were cones everywhere preventing me from turning left, so in order actually to get into the supermarket carpark I had to go (in the wrong direction) along the stretch of road I'd bypassed, back onto one of the roundabouts, make a complete circle and return to the supermarket totally avoiding the nice new bypass.

Ah well. I daresay they'll sort it out eventually so that it is more convenient. It's also worth noting that roundabouts are unusual in America and regarded as quite daunting, so with a bit of luck all the locals will take any other route to avoid them and I'll get the road to myself in future. That really would be convenient.

By the way, I should have said 'construction workers' not 'workmen'. Quite a few of them are women. They seem to come from a female construction worker ready-mix packet though - they all have a no-nonsense look about them, wear their overalls with a certain flair, and have identical long blonde tresses flowing out from under their hard hats.

Loadsamoney

We revisited the Indian Ladder Trail this morning - almost our last chance as it will soon be closed until May. It is not the American way to allow people to make up their own minds about how safe a path is to walk. Despite the usual howls of protest from the children at the very idea of outdoor activity, they had a lovely time.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with various combinations of Exiles, and intermittently engaged in a drawn-out game of Monopoly. For historical reasons which I won't bother to explain here we have a Swiss version in French and German. I don't really like to play the game in any language - I enjoy it far too much and it forces me to face up to a greed-is-good side of my personality which I'd rather suppress. So I sat knitting and listened in on the others.


Despite the Girl's best efforts to fleece her brother by taking advantage of his less than advanced grasp of numbers, and even though all he was really interested in was running the transport systems, in fact it was the Boy (with a little financial advice from his dad) who soon raced ahead and amassed a huge property empire. Alas the Man was not so lucky himself and had to declare himself bankrupt - which doesn't bode well for our current real life property speculation, but never mind.

Diner - is there anything finer?

Back to Saratoga Springs again, this time all of us, and we checked out the Saratoga Children's Museum. It was great fun, more of a play-and-activity centre than a museum. The kids loved riding the model trolley bus, serving up plastic food in a mini diner and generally let's-pretending. My favourite exhibit was this 'kinetic sculpture' which involved repositioning flat perspex rectangles in slots to make slopes for a ball to roll down - very satisfying.

All's wool that ends well

Today I made a trip to Saratoga Springs to visit a WAG who is based up there. It's about forty minutes' drive from Albany. As its name suggests it is a spa town and it's also famous for horse racing, and for being the original home of the potato chip, or crisp. The main street with its broad pavements (sidewalks) reminded me a bit of Bath, and it has that Bath-like alternative knit-your-own-yoghurt vibe going on too. It wouldn't have surprised me if we'd run into the barefoot hiker (well, it would have surprised me a bit, it was jolly cold this morning).

We were able to walk into town from L's house, which was a treat in itself, and after cappuccino and bagels in a great cafe we then enjoyed the delights of Saratoga Needle Arts, an amazing woolshop with a sale on. L, being of a crafty disposition herself, didn't seem to mind as I dithered forever before making a modest purchase. Heaven help me when it comes to choosing furniture for the new house - we'll probably just spend the next three years sitting on the floor.

A Bonfire Night reminder to Linton readers: we will not be hosting our annual pre-fireworks party this year, so please don't go descending in hoardes on our tenants expecting beer and Saratoga-style potato snacks.

Spirit of Tom Bowler

I more-or-less tailed the school bus this morning as I headed in for an early hours Parent Council meeting.

Readers of this blog who are veterans of playgroup committees, PSAs etc would have felt right at home, as I did. The focus was on fund-raising and featured the familiar complaint that it’s always the same people who end up doing all the work. Same the world over, then.

During a discussion of the recent Fall Fair I noted the absence of a tombola. Blank looks. Could it be, had I ventured onto virgin territory for that British fund-raising staple? I had!

Well, fear not, they’ll know all about it by this time next year - I've been co-opted as tombola coordinator! Even if the recent panto experience didn’t quite do the trick, surely the thrill of winning a tin of slightly out-of-date baked beans or a hideous pot-pourri dish will persuade our American hosts of what a joyous thing it is to be British. I'm so proud to be an ambassador for my country...

Hang on a minute. What have I done? If I'd just kept quiet I could have looked forward to three blissfully tombola-free years...

Darn it.