Thank Goodness We don't Have a Pond...

Fish fingers don't always cut it. I have mentioned previously how waiving a packet of Birds Eye in front of Dearest makes him joyous in anticipation. However, of late, he suggests eating out more than ever before. While this presents a navigational challenge to a Slimming World member, it certainly gives him a twinklier twinkle than any Doigt du Poisson that I can produce. So much so, that I mentioned this to an old friend of mine who said that whenever she suggested eating out to her husband, he told her that there was no need, because her meals were so lovely. Yes, so lovely.

I brooded on this. So last night, Dearest said that Son et lumiere had suggested that he was getting far too keen on fine dining, to which he had taken great exception. Then, he saw my face. Of course, he said, I get a great deal of fine dining at home. Too late. The die is cast.

The same friend said that she had been surprised but pleased, when her husband said that he was taking this afternoon off work. Envisaging an envigorating walk along the beach at the very least, her hopes were dashed when he said he needed a hand to buy some timber for an autumn frame for the pond. She should have been alerted by the arm length rubber gloves he'd asked her to purchase on Monday.
Now, if my husband had asked me to purchase some of those, I'd have thought that he was finally going to help with the thirty six year old pile of dishes in the sink. Fine dining indeed...
But hey, it's the weekend!













(ALICESCOTT.co.uk)
If you think this looks blurry, you're one ahead of me...

Trying to Keep up..

In a small village High Street, an empty shop front looks like a missing tooth. So when a cafe failed to flourish and finally shut down, we breathed a sigh of relief to see that someone was taking it over. The shop front was painted a very contemporary shade of Elephants' Breath, and for several months there was a veritable hive of industry as they gutted and re-designed the interior. Finally signage appeared: ta-da! "Bathe'n Vape".
Well now, I know about vaping and I know about bathing but I couldn't possibly imagine how you could combine the two. Did it have Turkish baths out the back where you could sweat it out with an electronic fag?  It troubled me for several weeks until yesterday when I saw the sign has been altered to "Bathe in Vape".  Now why would anyone want to do that? And anyway, I thought the whole point of vaping was that you did not produce any vape?  I may have got this wrong but I cannot see any conceivable reason why you would wish to surround yourself in any kind of fug created by you or anyone else.
Closer inspection of the window revealed other curiosities. Coffee, yes, but what are Mods? Nothing to do with Rockers, patently, And what are liquid coils? Oh boy, even dodgier territory here. Who'd 've thought we needed coffee and contraception in our vaping village?

Seeing Red....?

I have just recovered from a pummelling. No, not from a masseuse. Really. But from the vibrations caused by horses pounding across the plains. Explosions, gunshots, ricocheting bullets. I ducked and dived for cover, so unused am I to the modern cinema where sound pings at you from every direction.
I thoroughly enjoyed my first Western since Lord knows when, The Magnificent Seven. It wasn't as gritty as some I recall, and I did feel that the set lacked the deep ingrained gen-you-ine dirt of the old films. Did all those cowboys of yesteryear, have perfectly capped gnashers like this bunch? Hoary, hairy and authentically whiskered they were, but as soon as they smiled you got an eyeful of twenty first century dentistry. Call me picky.
But as I write this, I think you should be doing something more interesting and I should not be looking in a mirror wondering if auburn were the right choice today. Only time and a lot of reassurance will tell. In the meantime I'll "slap some bacon on a biscuit" and go. "We're burning daylight!"

Somebody today referred to Mrs Rogers. And it wasn't Fred Astaire..
I jest.. Dearest actually says it looks absolutely fine. Damned by faint praise?

Ginger Rogers (No resemblance)

I'll Have that Leg of a Chair Medium Rare, Please..

A friend of mine texted me this week: "How did you get on at Slummers World?" My daughter also wished me luck at "Skimmers World" which I marginally prefer. For the record, I have been neither slumming or skimming, but have emerged from my first week, four and a half pounds lighter in body and in spirit (of the non-gin variety). And all chair legs remain in tact.

I am back in harness, folks. It will be an enduring mystery to all those who have never had to grapple with their girth as to why I, who could write the manual on dieting, need to attend a Slimming Club.
It is because I must have a day of reckoning. Accountability. Instead of thinking about food, I need to THINK about food, and bugger me, drink. If I could blame any part of my anatomy, I would blame the hand. No, not the one in The Addams Family. My hand has an independent  motor memory that finds its way to my mouth way before I ever engage the brain. So it was either wear mittens or go to a Slimming Club.
The biggest change I have made is to drink more water. We are always being told to drink more water, and I have resolutely avoided this advice on the basis that it would mean constantly searching for a loo. But now, no excuse. I was also told last week by our Club Leader that peeing meant that you were getting rid of fat. When I think of the years that I spent holding on, I can see now that that is where I went wrong..
It had nothing to do with Mr Kipling. Not at all.

Diet by Sarah Dale

Just being a Good Neighbour ...

It's a postcode lottery, isn't it? What your neighbours are called. I'm a little in love with the names of ours opposite, Giles and Louisa.  Their house towers above our small cottage. It makes me feel as though, as a retired person, I have a janitorial interest in its security and well-being. In order to be an effective neighbourhood watch I have to observe, discretely of course, and avoiding the tell-tale glint of binoculars in the low autumn sun, their comings and goings. It gives me a little frisson when I see Giles up a seven foot ladder, for example, trimming their beech hedge (which they have done in a most artistic way, I have to say, by revealing the gnarled and twisty branches of the lower part which also gives me better viewing access of their drive, of course.)

Well, just before you mock my little peccadillo, then rest assured, there are Others doing it on a Much Grander Scale than I.  I read this morning in The Times  about a furore at the Tate Modern. A gallery which is no stranger to weird and wacky over the years. Thrives on controversy and debate. But this one is big, really big. They built an extension to the gallery which was finished some months after the completion of a neighbouring block of ultra modern flats that feature exceptionally panoramic windows. They must enjoy pretty impressive views, if you dis-count the somewhat lumpen Tate addition. The problem is that they in turn afford a wonderful and intriguing view to all those Tate visitors who are getting even more bang for their bucks on the ticket price. Tate visitors are even taking pictures of the flats' interiors from the balconies. And putting those pictures online..  Think of it!  Eat your heart out Tracey Emin. Here we can see  constantly evolving Unmade Beds. Dear Lord you might even... No, I shudder. Too much to contemplate. So we have a tremendous brouhaha. The head of the Tate, Sir Nicholas Serota suggesting they invest in net curtains. Net curtains, indeed? The residents in return retaliate by displaying an effigy of Sir Nick, sporting his underwear, in their windows. Now this is what I call truly interactive art.

It does, however, make me realise that perhaps in our nets-free residence, I should contemplate putting on my Winceyette nightie as I make a mad dash across the corridor to the bathroom in the mornings.
I'm not so much into interactive art, myself.

A Celebration of Water that Runs in the Right Places...

Do you remember the redoubtable wine-box of the 80s? It meant a seemingly unlimited source of plonk minus the angst of opening a bottle, or the distress of seeing the level go down. It meant quite literally wine on tap.

I have to say that last week we uncorked in the traditional manner in celebration of  a now fully- functioning bathroom. We might be uncorking a few more when we receive the final bill.

The most apposite birthday card received last week I would like to share with you.

Ramblingmansion.co.uk

Scent of a Dream or merely Sent to Dream?

I've never been coy about my age. Never seen the point. This week however, I was offered a seat on the bus. Twice, on two different occasions. So not just an off day, then.  Whilst this undermines my recent rantette about manners, it did somewhat indicate that the outward signs of ageing are more obvious than I'd fondly imagined.
The only thing that cheered me was going into the fragrance department of John Lewis.
Mid-week shopping has evidently been hard hit by the Internet because the store was spookily devoid of customers.  A bright young thing accosted me as I happened to be standing next to a perfume display of Charlotte Tilbury's new perfume.  No, not the Poisoned Dwarf in Dallas. That was Charlene Tilton. So you haven't heard of this one? No, me neither.
The assistant asked what my usual fragrance was.
Le Labo Rose 31, I told her. Rose with a twist of coriander, I added, so she would know instantly that I wasn't any old punter but rather one who knew her fragrances.
Ah, but this one, is enriched with hypnotic, pyscho-active magic molecules, erotic floral extracts, and the real clincher is that the pheromone notes of hedione, patchouli and peach are activated by body heat and stimulate desire for up to nine, yes, my dears, nine whole hours! Just remember, you read it here first.
Well, was I chuffed? You bet I was. I might have been taken for someone who  conceivably needed a seat on the bus, but obviously I still looked as though I might be  up for some pheromones... I almost asked her for a litre on the spot. Instead I asked her to squirt me lavishly before I rushed home to the Birthday Boy.

As we had a birthday celebration proper at the weekend, we were dining at home. (I like that phrase dining at home, it has so much more elegance than, made him his supper).
Redolent with Charlotte Tilbury's Scent of a Dream, I made Dearest a very healthy cod piece. Cheap joke: really, a large piece of cod with capers and lemon, if you're bothered.) After a couple of glasses of very delectable Sancerre, the old chap was asleep at 8.30 in front of Hard Talk.
Evidently, an overload of pheromones.                                I did the dishes. Very loudly.

Not a selfie

Taking the Weight off my Feet (and other assorted parts..)

Sorry. Have you been waiting long? I have been totally engrossed in my "Thin Thighs in Thirty Days" manual. No, my dears, it would take a great deal longer than that to reduce these jolly jambons of mine to sinewy slimness. You've guessed.. I received the manual when I attended my first Slimming World meeting. And very jolly it was too. I can't wait to wow them with my weight loss next week and scoop the prize. But no, I won't be eligible for that, as they do expect you to lose spectacularly in the first week, so it's not fair on the old troupers who've been hard at it for a lot longer.

So here we are. I feel slimmer already. I did say as I stepped on to the scales that I wanted it recorded that I was wearing a very heavy necklace. It might be a beautiful pebble necklace, but it doesn't weigh three stone. However, I've completed my online Ocado shop with the computer making suggestions : "Have you forgotten ......?" No I don't need some virtual Satan telling me I've forgotten the Almond croissants. Dear me. I only bought them once, and they weren't for me, guv.
But do you see what I mean? I am now going to have to navigate round food and equally lamentably, drink, very cautiously from now on.
It's an eminently sensible programme. Delightfully healthy. It makes me think how foolish I am that I cannot do this unaided. But as everyone's successes were clapped today, I realised that maybe it's the applause I've missed. Dear Lord, what does this say about me?
Too much, I suspect.

What Shopping Research is really Telling us...

I am queen of the curlicues. Why have a straight line when you can have a curly queue?  If there's not one ahead of me, I will create one.. Never take your place behind me in Waitrose/Sainsburys/Marks and Spencer's ...or you too are doomed, my darlings! I am resigned to this. I accept as read, the fact that when I espy a free till, and hurtle towards it, impulse Jaffa cakes flying off my laden trolley, that when I arrive, breathless, triumphant, I will be boomeranged back into the store because my chosen till point has been cordoned off. 
This is life and what drives me to grappling with a slow, ailing computer to order groceries online. However, there are still advantages, if not pleasures,  to be derived from shopping in the real world. So I was interested to read today that scientific research has shown us poor pedestrian shoppers the way forward.
You'll never see see "Five Items or Fewer" at a till point but you will see "5 items or less" which is not really designed to irk the inner pedant, but rather to facilitate a speedy exit for those who only have a few items in their basket. Seemingly, this can create longer waiting times than at normal till points. I think we could probably have worked that one out for ourselves.
Apparently it is better to slip in behind someone with a full trolley, because interaction between customer and cashier increases waiting time with each transaction.
Tell you what, let's make the most of human interaction. Let's cherish and preserve it. Because if we don't, the robots will be taking over. If you're quiet and still, you will be able to hear the march of metallic feet on the horizon.

The Great British Bunion salutes The Great British Bake Off

All British readers will have heard today that The Great British Bake Off  has been sold to
Channel 4. The BBC which is attempting to control its budget could not match the million pounds per episode that the independent company was offering. And tonight the two presenters, Mel and Sue have said that they will leave the programme. They are an intrinsic part of its good humour . With dexterous wit they diffuse mounting tensions within the tent. Much has been made over the years about soggy bottoms on this show, but soon we will be faced with a sagging souffle.
What will Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood do? Will they too call it a day? We all know how Top Gear ended in tears when the key players left.  Ten million devoted Bake Off viewers will also be in tears if it changes the team as well as the format. Bake Off with adverts? I can imagine the silken tones already "Tonight's programme is sponsored by Home Pride Self-Raising Flour".

All I can say is that there has been an awful lot of self-raising involved in this decision-making.
Savour the current series, is my advice , before it becomes The Great British Take Off.
Sue Perkins and Mel Giedroyc  (Getty images)

They said in a statement: "We made no secret of our desire for the show to remain where it was... we're not going with the dough."

Not just a tale of everyday country folk...

I loved the hour long episode of The Archers (BBC Radio 4) tonight. The two of us, one, not even an Archers listener, sat rapt as the jury deliberated painfully over the innocence of Helen the abused wife
accused  of attempting to murder her evil manipulative husband, Rob.

Dedicated listening to the wireless, as we did in our youth, has become a neglected art. Nowadays, I rarely sit and listen as my mother or grandmother did as they completed a knitting or sewing task. Sad to think that lacking those skills, I am in danger of losing the art of simply listening.

So it was with huge pleasure that this evening, free of  i-pads, phones and Sunday newspapers, we sat in lamplight and listened. A little capsule of contemporary Britain: disturbing, provocative, and moving. A quiet tour de force. BBC radio drama at its very best.

Manners Maketh Cheaper Mocha...

There is a rising tide. People are beginning to fight back to restore the factory settings on manners.
I love it. I am totally for it.
It gave me great joy last week to read about the Spanish cafe owner in a place outside Girona who has adopted a sliding scale of prices for the coffee she sells.
Customers who forget pleases and thank yous get charged 5 euros; customers who say please are charged 3 euros, and those who say, "Buenos dias. Un cafe, por favor, " pay 1 euro 30.

Can you imagine that in this country? Not bloomin' likely. Trading Standards officers would be down on you like a ton of bricks. But I think it's a totally brilliant idea and it seems to be working.
I think we're losing the way on manners and how to behave towards one another.
I like stories like this because it gives me faith that people are prepared to make a stand before the veneer of civilised behaviour is eroded entirely.
Thank you for listening.

Grasping the Nettle...

It's as if Nature has flicked a switch. There's a smell of damp woollen blazers in the air as children trudge back to school. The garden which only a few weeks before pulsated with colour, is slowly reducing to a dull throb. Overblown. Blowsy. Like me.
After weeks, months, and years, if I'm brutally honest, of over-indulgence, I too am overblown. But not blowsy. No, it's the telltale straining across the seemingly self-opening buttons on the blouse that is the problem. Is there an autumnal nip in the air? Well, there most certainly will be if I do not take drastic action.
So it's time for the annual fat-chat with an old friend who fights this uneven battle like I do. Although we live many miles apart, we will be re-enrolling in Slimmers' World. Going it alone is no good. One day I decide I'll cut carbs. So I start the day cutting a large slice of rustic loaf and slathering it with French butter to re-create the lost holiday vibe. I'll cut alcohol, then. As soon as I hear a drawn cork and the exquisite tinkle of wine poured into a glass, I am there. Tomorrow. I'll start tomorrow.
Actually, I can't get to the class 'til next week. So next week it is, then.
I told you so that I am committed.  Oh Lord, I've just remembered...Slimmers'World is big on the happy clapping. I've got to dig deep here.

Supermarket superiority...

Is eight years any age at all for a computer? Like my body, I think I under-exercise it. I don't hammer the hell out of it, with exacting and challenging tasks like photo-shopping, or streaming movies (neither the computer or I have any clue how to do that). A little light shopping, perhaps, where the credit card receives the genuine punishment as I gently put a little something in my basket. And a little heavy shopping where the fingers do the walking and the only strenuous activity is opening the grocery bags and putting the contents in the kitchen cupboard. So I am pretty disgruntled that my computer is slowing me down.
In conversation with our NAF (New American Friends) Jane soon told me that there was one thing she envied me. Could it be my cute English vowels? No. Surely not my pert derriere? (I smile as I type this, sitting comfortably on my now positively panoramic posterior.) No, indeed the thing she most envied was our Waitrose. She had stayed in England, and had been so taken with this high quality supermarket that she had insisted accompanying her friend just to view the products. And to think, she said, she can just use her computer to shop... Now this was a revelation to someone  who assumed the idea of internet shopping for groceries must surely have originated in the States. Well. they're obviously missing a trick in Florida, is all I can say.
With a computer on the blink, and an extreme disinclination to go food shopping when all I really need to survive is a couple of lettuces and a cucumber from now until Christmas, my daughter was happy to oblige with submitting my groceries order.  This afternoon, I rang her to add a couple of items: ice cream (lettuce-flavoured, obviously), and as I am spending three nights away from home next week, some Big Un's (as in Charlie Bingham's) meals for one, for her father. The extended lughole (which fails to hear much of what I say) tuned in to this vital conversation. Dearest is suffering from a post-holiday cold virus.
So in a voice that sounded like it came from the depths of the Blue Lagoon, he said:
"I'd like a Fish pie, please." (weakly)
"A chicken Tandoori.." (a little stronger)
"Oh, and a Boeuf Bourguinon" (with warm anticipation)
Nothing much wrong with his appetite. But time to up the statins, I think.

When the Cook's away......