Anakana Schofield – Author of Bina, Martin John and Malarky

December 6, 2006

National Anthem Neurology

Which part of the brain likes the national anthem? I’d like to know because the small Puffin will not stop singing it, despite our numerous chit chats along the lines of it’s a song designed not to be sung too often how about singing…. this other song Mr Tambourine man?

No, it’s the usurper. He recently announced he’d almost perfected it.  This means he sings it even more often. This song is making something in his brain very, very happy. Or perhaps the fact it’s hurled before every ice hockey match is the key to it.

Small Puffin also announced he’d been working on an operatic version of the national anthem, which when revealed turned out to have a touch of the Sheryl Crow’s about it, rather than Covent Garden vibrato.

Then there’s his French version which ends after the first two words.

Then there was the version in the middle of the packed ferry boat.

But the highlight of this national antheming was when he interrupted our recent Romeo and Juliet inspired wooden spoon sword fight, declared it was the worst sword fight he’d ever had and announced he had to sing the national anthem, turned the wooden spoon ladle end up and used it as a microphone.

Have at you patriotism…. 5 years of singing the same song and it looks likely there’ll be no let up shortly with the promised rock version and Christmas version in the works. To say nothing of the “I’m now working on the American national anthem”, which the Canadians on the next packed ferry boat/ trolley bus will surely rise up and clap over… it currently stalls after 1 and half lines.

December 5, 2006

Case in point

Exactly which part of the brain is responsible for hanging things on the wall? Which part of the brain allowed a woman hang this shelf on the wall in this manner and look at it each day (for many months) without any overwhelming desire to make it practical and useful.

kitchen shelf

If there can be a defence against this act; some initial neurological trickery went on in the purchase of it, since it turned out not to be a shelf at all. It was a panier/basket impersonating a shelf.  In which part of the brain does a basket masquerade as a quality shelf?

Spatial reasoning? Apply red dot.

November 23, 2006

The peril of noble advice near tofu

A woman, with shiny quality curls, shoved a packet of soft tofu in front of me yesterday excitedly, because she heard me tell my young puffin there was no possibility this side of Mercury I would be buying the gunky looking peach flavoured GMO soy bean pudding he insisted upon.

Just add cocoa powder, says she of the good curls, it’s as good as chocolate pudding, my kids never notice than difference.

She added a few more supporting facts about neighbouring packets of soft tofu and thoughts of chocolate pudding had begun to be genuinely appealing.

I begin with four spoons of cocoa and a hand blender. It’s very dusty. I am unconvinced. It doesn’t look like chocolate pudding. A small lick .. such a shocking affront to my tongue that I add three large spoons of brown sugar. Then a more anxious pitch took over and I threw three big spoons of raspberry jam. Worried that raspberry jam was very silly thing to put in I hail the puffin to taste it. He look enthusiastic and swiftly revolted.

-it’s like batter wails the Puffin

-by no stretch of bleedin’ beep beep imagination does this resemble chocolate pudding, blasts the mammy craytur.

Feck it, piled another four large spoons of real hot chocolate into it, in an gesture of drowning the vileness out of it.

Reenter the puffin

-much improved.

But the problem is that the presence of tofu just couldn’t be obliterated, given the blasted thing was made of tofu.

Still disgruntled I suggest we fling it the freezer and eat it only in the event of an earthquake.

Moments later I disclose I feel very sick.

Puffin says he feels sick.

Really?

Well not really. I just feel we should go to the bakery and get a lemon cupcake to get rid of the taste.

We agree to brave an incredible rainstorm to walk five blocks to the shop having further agreed no lemon cupcakes, sensible duck crackers and less sensible choice for mother craytur.

At the bakery puffin shouts excitedly “look there’s a mouse!” Woman behind counter admits a “rodent” (she won’t commit to which variety) walked in the back door and has gone missing in action.

Mother craytur sincerely and irrevocably (forever and ever amen) terrified of rodents tries to climb into shopping trolley and generally wails like a goose, while bakery person asks Puffin to locate the mouse.

Puffin obliges. Mother waves hands and wails. Mouse or rodent cannot be located. Bakery person tells folks not to be alarmed. Mother craytur is very alarmed. We pay for provisions at neighbouring cash till and Puffin points out mouse is by front door: are we going out that way. Certainly not. Puffin points out umbrella is left in tall tub by front door. I ask Puffin to go get. Puffin goes to get it, but bends down and declares mouse presence again. I declare sighting excitedly to staff who ignore me and continuing cutting buns. Puffin returns sans umbrella. Declares he only likes mice in the distance and up close they are a bit scary wants me to go with over there with him. I say let’s abandon umbrella. Then note that storm is now coming down at such a rate pneumonia is on the menu. I beg Puffin to get umbrella. Puffin refuses. I offer Puffin money. Puffin refuses. I beg cashier to get umbrella. Cashier obliges. I heap silent blessings on cashier to the tune of God be good to her, may her house be rained on with gold coins. We exit distant door, far from mousie.  At door and window where mousie was spotted I say to Puffin. OK where is he?  We bend and peer under the trollies through the window while the rain runs into the back of our boots desperate to get a look at him, now there’s a thick pain of glass between us all. Puffin admits he thinks mousie tail is as long as his hand and mousie’s feet went up by his ears when he walked like a crocodile.

In future must speak a foreign language when discussing puddings with the Puffin. Must scan trollies for furry presence before entering magasin. Practice attachment parenting with umbrella at all times. Trust implicitly Puffin opinion on pudding matters rather than gals with shiny hair. Good chocolate pudding does not produce shiny hair.

Post script note: on subsequent visit phobic mama requested status update on Mr Mousie and it was acknowledged Mousie was actually a small rat and er… the cessation of blood through his veins is suspected, but has not yet been established.

November 1, 2006

Seperated at birth: Blogging and leafblowers

ok so, I cannot understand blogging. It’s like learning a dialect spoken by a remote group of chickens and rather like having to read the instructions on a new camera. It’s very unlikely I will ever grasp exactly what all these peculiar sounding words (avatar? er?sound like a bus pass to go on board the Starship Enterprise.) actually mean or do. So it’s very likely that my posts will be higgledy-piggeldy.  On a completely different note: leafblowers. En route to the school two men in hats and scarfs blow leafs and get paid to do so. They blow leafs right into my small face. They turn the blowers away with an appropriate extended glower, but the dust still lines the bottom of my eyes. More importantly what’s the point? I heard a woman say once: they can destroy a lawn And? If a lawn gets destroyed? So armies of men and women and concerned citizens blow leafs from garden to passerby’s face en route to a black plastic bag. Meanwhile the earth heats up beyond anything imaginable. Al Gore walks out on stage to give his speech to the folks. People plug in leaf blowers.  It’s like the language of blogging. Somehow I am missing the details.  I need to read that book of instructions.