The Tank Museum, Bovington, Dorset

You know how they say Men are from Mars? Well, girls, it's absolutely true. And to prove it all you have to do is take a couple of normal, sentient men to the tank museum. Before your very eyes, they will morph into warrior-types who totally know everything about the military hardware on display and talk loudly with one another about SPGs and ranges and ballistics and other stuff that you've never heard them mention before.

Such was my experience yesterday. We'd had Mr B's car fixed, and we wanted to make sure that the nice people down at the garage had actually sorted out the problem, rather than just telling us they had and charging us a ship-load of money for the fun of it. We wondered where we might go to put the motor through its paces. Emi, who plays far too much World of Tanks online, has been lobbying for a visit to the tank museum for ages and wasn't slow about suggesting it as a suitable venue. He even did the puppy eyes thing, so there was simply no saying no! to him.

Throughout our visit Emi positively fizzed with excitement, and Mr B was pretty much up there with him. Mr B had to do military service in the Spanish army and was heard to mutter something about having been an infantry man, but he very quickly forgot about his infantry connections and rolled into the (cavalry) joys of tank warfare in a way that left me baffled and bemused.

 I found the whole thing interesting (sort-of), but, as with the insects at Micropolis, I was far from hooked.  I'm much more interested in social history and I found these industrial-scale killing machines chilling. Sitting silently as exhibits in the museum you get only a small flavour of their true potency. As a little girl growing up in Northern Ireland I can vividly remember how these monsters roar when their huge engines growl into action, and how they make the ground shake when they move; you can feel the pounding strokes of their engines through your feet.

The first person to have thought up the idea of a tank appears to have been Leonardo da Vinci, who drew plans for an armoured vehicle way back in the 1480s. They've got a made-up model of what his tank might have looked like if some Renaissance prince had decided to run with the idea and put it into production.

I don't know how feasible or manoeuvrable Leo's little armoured run-around would have been, but just imagine if they'd managed to iron out any wrinkles in the prototype and make it work.  I wonder how it would have changed the history of European warfare.

Nobody else seems to have thought much more about tanks until the advent of the machine gun, which made its first really big splash in the First World War. It seemed that the only means by which to meet the threat presented by this new mechanical gun was to create a mechanical monster with armour that was impervious to its bullets. Churchill, then the British Minister for War, encouraged the engineers to get cracking on something that would bring Leonardo's idea into the twentieth century and on 15th September 1916 the British Army used their first tanks at Flers in France. They needed a bit more tweaking, but slowly, slowly they got the technology right and the tanks went on to break the deadlock of the trenches.

I'm sure there's a fascinating story behind each and every tank that they've got parked up in the museum. This one, however, caught my eye:

And here's the tank he commanded:

It kind of blew me away to have it in front of me knowing a little bit of the battlefield drama that it's come through.

Another one caught my eye:

And here she is, the last tank of the line from 1945, looking as pristine and invincible as the day she rolled out of the Vauxhall factory in Luton:

There are loads of opportunities to see how the tanks look and feel inside. As you might imagine they are extremely cramped and none too comfortable. I'd hate to been sharing a ride in one of the camouflage numbers that fought in North Africa during the Second World War. Imagine six grown men squashed into a space not much bigger than two toilet cubicles stretched out around the guns and the turret, driving through the heat of the desert, with the heat of the huge engine and their own body heat. It must have been a total nightmare just existing, without even factoring in the threat of Rommel and his troops trying to blow them away.

At the risk of stating the obvious, the museum is a great day out for tank enthusiasts and anyone interested in military history. They have tanks from all periods, including Leonardo's prototype, the first tanks from WW1 right through to tanks that have seen action in Afghanistan.  There's a perfectly acceptable cafe and a sandwich van outside. Dogs are not permitted in any part of the museum, and there's ample free parking very close to the entrance. All parts of the museum appeared to be accessible by wheelchair. If you'd like to check it out you can find all the details on their website: Tank Museum web site.

On our way home we found the most glorious field of poppies in full bloom, which seemed a fitting end to the day.

There was a long line of cars that had pulled over on the side of the road to take photos. And if you look carefully you can see the heads of other people out there in the middle of all that colourful loveliness snapping away to their hearts' content.

All the best,

Bonny x

WD40 stain removal ...

Have you ever got pine resin on your clothes? It's a really tough one to get out.

Where we live on the Costa Brava we have such amazing pine trees. They're so rugged and majestic all at the same time, and they produce the very best pine nuts. Emi and his little chums go crazy in the summertime to collect them, and carefully crack them out of their protective cases to eat.

The only issue that I have with these beauties concerns the sticky resin that they secrete. In our garden we have a particularly lovely old pine tree that throws its shadow over a couple of garden benches. In the summertime this makes for the perfect shady spot to sit and read, whilst you keep a parental eye on the action down at the pool.

Recently Mr B sat down to read on his favourite bench whilst Emi was playing with his remote control submarine. When he came back inside and turned around it looked as though someone had run a paint roller back and forth across his butt. Nobody'll notice, he said sheepishly, when I pointed out the problem. But, honestly, the only people who wouldn't have noticed would have been the folk with the white sticks who were out walking their guide dogs.

I tried to wash the offending marks out of the fabric, but every stain remover that I could find between London and the Iberian peninsula had no effect whatsoever. I thought dark, uncharitable thoughts about what a klutz Mr B was.

Then, a couple of weeks later, I went and sat on the self-same bench to watch Emi perform some new and polished aquatic manoeuvre in the pool. In fairness he was yelling in that excited way kids do when they need your total attention RIGHT NOW, so in my defence I'm going to say that I was distracted by the drama of the moment. When I got back to the house after the performance, however, Mr B feigned great concern that I might have accidentally sat on the barbecue grill or something.  Grrr... . And of course I had to admit to having sat on the self-same bench that he'd got an earful for sitting on earlier.

Once again I was stumped as to  how I could get the offending stains out of the clothes.

I mentioned all of this to my friend (the Whippet Mummy) at a party on Saturday night (I know we're a wild and crazy pair!). Now the Whippet Mummy is a bit of a whizz when it comes to sorting out problems like this. Straight out of the blocks, and without a moment's hesitation, she advised me to try some WD40 lubricating oil. So I zipped over to the hardware store first thing Monday morning and bought myself a bottle.

Want to see a before picture?

Not a pretty sight, and bear in mind that this is after it's been through various wash cycles with various stain removing potions.

Yesterday Maxi and I spent a short period of time in the sunshine oiling and scrubbing the offending marks with a nail brush on the picnic table outside. The really stubborn bits we rubbed with kitchen roll soaked in surgical spirit. And this is what we got for our labours:

Amazing or what? I was seriously impressed. Admittedly they do have a slightly petrochemical whiff about them, but another wash with strong detergent ought to sort that out. The back of the WD40 bottle boasts that it's also great stuff for getting rid of chewing gum if you ever happen to get that matted into your clothes.

So now I'm passing on my new stain-removing tip: when all else fails reach for the WD40!

All the best,

Bonny x
As shared on SYC

Maxi missing in action ...

I've had a pretty terrible few days. I haven't been able to think straight or to write anything.

You see what's happened is that we've suffered a couple of bereavements: both my father-in-law and his older brother, my husband's much-loved only uncle, have died within a very short space of time. Papa J passed away back in March, and Tió F passed away on Monday. They were our much-loved patriarchs, who'd lived through some pretty tough times and had the very best stories to tell. But it's all too raw and personal to write about. What I can say is that they have left a gashing hole in our family circle that will never be filled.

Then to make a really bad situation worse Maxi went missing, and it felt like I'd also lost a child. Emi was really upset, and I was really upset because my little boy was upset and because I was upset to have lost Maxi, who means the world to me. The already-sad house felt empty and haunted by his absence.

On Tuesday he was taken from our back garden, where we thought he would be safe and well, whilst we went to our uncle's funeral. Since then I've spent sleepless nights, pacing around, wondering where he was, and what was going on in his little furry head. Did he understand what was happening? Were they being nice to him, the people who had taken him? Was he missing me as much as I was missing him?

And in the middle of all my misery I started to think of those poor parents of little Madeline McCann. Now I'm not for a moment suggesting that my loss was anything to equal the awfulness of their loss. But I had a small sense of how terrible it must be for them to have the never-ending uncertainty as to what has happened to their little girl. The not knowing bit is a torture; the dark corners of your mind suck you into a black abyss where you imagine the most awful outcomes.

Now having written all of the above, and, at the risk of being accused of being a drama-queen, I am delighted to report that Maxi has been returned safe and well. It's taken days of frantic phone calls and multiple visits to our local police station to track him down and get him back, but back he has happily come.

And I'm so very happy to have him with me again, and you can rest assured he's enjoying an obscene amount of cuddles and treats. So this week my very special Friday Find is my darling little Maxi.

All the best,

Bonny x

As shared on Friday Finds

Maleficent

It was a tough job getting Emi talked into going to see Maleficent this afternoon.

It's a re-imagining of the Sleeping Beauty story, Mr B had explained patiently, but that really didn't cut the mustard with an eight year-old who'd spent all weekend imagining what D-Day had been like for his two great-great uncles who had landed on a Normandy beach seventy years ago. Emi's head was filled with tanks and guns and soldiers. Sleeping princesses and their wicked fairy godmothers really didn't feature.

But Mr B, who had his own Jolie-focussed agenda, persisted. Admittedly he had to resort to bribery in the end: popcorn and something called a frozen Tango changed hands before the deal was sealed.

Having finally got everyone to the cinema I enjoyed Maleficent much more than I ever remember enjoying Disney's original Sleeping Beauty. I was never much of a one for pretty princesses who spent their lives passively waiting around to be rescued by passing princes. I think they were rubbish role-models for young girls, to whom we ought to have been telling stories about the sisters who were doing it for themselves in life.

And that sentiment neatly leads me on to Angelina Jolie, who is a truly magnificent Maleficent: she totally carries the movie. And it's great that Disney has moved past its black and white view of the world as somewhere filled with only very good people (who were invariably blonde, thin and beautiful) and very bad people (who were usually dark, fat and ugly).

This Maleficent comes with back story, which helps explain why she places the terrible sleeping curse on Aurora, the blameless new-born baby. Like most of us, she's dragging along her fair share of emotional baggage. And when it's all explained, we end up rooting for her, especially as we can see her working through her issues during the course of the movie.

The special effects are pretty amazing, but, as is so often the case with these things, the script could have been tightened up a bit here and there, and personally I found the Sleeping Beauty's unblemished, blonde, smiley goodness a bit too prissy.

As for Emi he gave the movie an enthusiastic thumbs up having greatly enjoyed the monster battle scenes and the beautiful queen with the horns (Maleficent), for whom he'd been rooting throughout. I think he's taking after his dad ... .

All the best,

Bonny x

Shepherd's Bush Market, London, W12 8DG

Just a stone's throw away from the glittering, marble-clad shopper's paradise that is Westfield is Shepherd's Bush Market, a traditional London street-market. And it would be hard to conceive of two more different shopping venues even if you resorted to tripping on hallucinogenic drugs (which, to be very clear, I am NOT recommending that you do). They are the retail chalk and cheese of the rich and varied spectrum of shopping that our great capital has to offer.

Don't take my word for it, have a quick look for yourself:

The glittering halls of Westfield's Village, admittedly the swankier end of the complex

and

The colourful life of the market

Now I'm not going to say that one is brilliant and the other is rubbish. They're clearly pitched at two very different types of shopper, and I think that both of them deserve to exist. I'm also not saying that I'm going to buy a load of stuff in either of them: I'm not. Westfield Village is way too glitzy and over-the-top for me, and Shepherd's Bush Market sells a lot of stuff that I don't have much use for. I don't wear hijab, eat Halal meat, enjoy Ugandan-hot chillies, or look like I belong in the many, lovely, but very brightly coloured textiles that they sell.  If I lived round the corner I'm sure I'd buy my fruit and veg there, I'd pop in if my mobile phone needed to be fixed, and from time to time I'd buy things from the haberdashery stall.

The sad thing is that the market's future is looking very uncertain. There's a regeneration order floating around, which may just do away with it altogether. And I for one think that would be a crying shame. It's a really colourful place, built along the side of a railway viaduct. It's been there since 1914, and is clearly a popular shopping venue with many of the locals who can't find what they want in the fancy boutiques down the road.

There's a real textiles buzz about the place. There are numerous stalls selling fabrics and haberdashery, and what really made my heart sing was the number of enthusiastic young ladies in their late teens/ early twenties who were shopping for their next creations. They had that lovely, excited, anything is possible attitude as the bales of fabric sent their imaginations into overdrive.

The market leads out onto the Goldhawk Road, where there are another half dozen established fabric shops.

And while we're out on the Goldhawk Road it's worth checking out the traditional pie, mash and eels cafe. Jellied eels are a traditional dish in the East End of London. And, whilst I've lived here for most of my adult life, it's a taste I have yet to acquire, so I resisted the temptation to pop in for a mid-morning snack.

Instead I wandered back down the market for another look at what it had to offer.

There were hats; lots and lots of hats in every colour, size and shape.

There was some street art.

Now to some this street art may be nothing more than graffiti. I looked at it carefully and decided that it had some merit, and then I wondered how they'd managed to paint it up there. Did they scale the roof, and then daub it on upside down with one guy dangling the artist over the edge by his ankles, or did they come in the dead of night with ladders and do it by torchlight?

I was impressed with the carpet shop that was also selling astroturf. It's good to diversify, don't you think? And I can tell you straight up that you have no chance of finding astroturf in the designer halls down the road.

There were more stalls selling the foodstuffs and things that the local folk want to buy ...

... and so many things caught my eye, like the special offers on goat meat and boiler chickens. You certainly wouldn't find anything to match that down in Waitrose or the M&S Food Hall, but again this is the type of food that the people who live round here eat. And without the market those communities wouldn't be able to find it in the quality and quantity presently available. There's clearly a rich culture of home-cooking going on in local family homes and it would be a shame to do anything that might interfere with that.

People were selling makeup, umbrellas, sweets and everything in between.

As you can see the two shopping centres couldn't be more different. Separating them in a sort of retail frontier-land is Shepherd's Bush Green ...

... which boasts a few unique shops of its own that also cater for the specific cultural requirements of the neighbourhood in a way that the designer shopping centre doesn't.

Personally I think it's marvellous that such diversity can exist in the stretch of a few city blocks. We live in a truly multicultural society here in West London, and I think the planners ought to think long and hard about how the local, maybe not so well-off, folk in these parts would be affected by even the temporary closure of their market. It would be a travesty if it were to be regenerated into another characterless shopping mall selling over-priced coffee and little that was of any real use to the locals.

And, to change the subject, I really love our groovy new red buses. Aren't they wicked? 

Have a super weekend!

Bonny x