We do like to be beside the seaside..

The British Bank Holiday. Heatwave last week, so factor in cloud and preferably mizzle for a Bank Holiday Monday. It's not what we want but it is generally what we get. It is however, the sort of weather that sorts out the men from the boys. The women from the girls, or the Arthurs who may be Marthas. ( Trying valiantly to cover every base here.)

Monday was no different from many previous Bank holidays. I put on my swimming costume ( my wet suit winging its way back to the mother ship, Amazon) my thick hoodie, jogging trousers (for show, you understand)and my scarf, before joining my similarly clad family. The wind whipping up the waves, and a threatening sky did not deter our resolve to spend some family time on the beach. It gave us a brief respite from technology. The sand between our toes reconnected us with the elements and temporarily disconnected us from a complex world of political uncertainty and electoral posturing. 

All this and a cream tea? Clouds lifted and the sun shone through. For one day only, I was on the see-food diet. Not a word, right? 

When a Birthday Suit simply won't do....

I strain his patience at times. At least, I think I must do. As a celebration of our marriage of 37 years, after three glasses of champagne, I decided to try on the new wet-suit that arrived today. (Rest assured that this benign and bumbling Bunion blog has not taken a deviant turn.) I 'm joining our grandchildren for a day on the beach the Bank holiday. I do not intend freezing my derriere off.   Unused to disporting flesh on beaches, British or otherwise, I decided that the most practical solution was a shortie wet-suit. In my mind's eye, which, apparently seems to be suffering from severe myopia, I envisaged a garment that would hold all my moving parts firmly in place as I sprang like a boardless surfer into to the foam. The very prospect had caused loud and raucous mirth amongst those of my friends privy to this new purchase.

Oh dear. Oh very big dear. The very idea.

Advice to other plumptious sextagenarians contemplating same. Do not attempt after alcohol. I came downstairs, half in, half out. Half-cut.
"Can you help me?" (Waspish and sweaty.)
"What do you want me to do exactly?" (Three glasses of relaxation and not exactly moving at speed.)
"I'm stuck." (Stating the obvious.)
My Dearest husband then attempted to take it off, when actually what I needed was another pair of hands to help me get it on. Together we hoiked it over the second shoulder. Designed for the flat of chest, there was, categorically, no way it was ever going to cover those particular moving parts. Game over. Not quite.
More fumbling, more extruding myself like human toothpaste from its latex tubing. Pink and sweaty I finally slid out from the rubbery cocoon with a,"Hello, Mr. President!"
"Jesus!" he said (but not in a good way).
Happy Anniversary, Sweetie.* What a floor show!
Going to be difficult to top that one next year.

(* Sweetie is still not reading this. Sensible chap. Too busy living the dream. )

Abortive attempt to become silver surfer of a different kind

Just call me Hyacinth...

I haven't succumbed to a Fit-Bit. Yes, I know they are all the rage. Even helping to solve crime in The Good Fight. (Don't you just love it? Not even missing Alicia Florrick. Amazing.)  I know people who do have them. A girl friend of mine turned up for lunch recently, and I could see her through the window, walking up and down on the spot. I thought she was bustin' Justin for the bathroom, and dived to open the front door, but no, she was simply increasing her step-count. Over a year ago, I was ever so slightly sniffy about Dearest 's obsession with the step-count on his phone. So I have to put my hand up and say that since I've upgraded my phone, I have become as step-conscious as he is.
So it was, with a huge sense of achievement that yesterday, on our long day out we clocked up 9.3 miles. I've rounded it up to 10.00, when I've bragged about it today. Which is understandable, as you know my love of round figures. Starting with my own. Though it would be considerably less rotund if I did that every day.
A lot of mileage was clocked up doing circuits of the flower show. The only garden that truly impressed us was an Artisanal Japanese garden.  There were truly weird ones amongst some that were moderately charming. A few terrific displays, but at times it struck me that we were in a very nobby garden centre.  Don't get brunch in most garden centres, however. Brunch was booked for 10.30. I was ready for it at 9.00. Having been up since 5.00, my first breakfast was already rattling around cavernously. I did enjoy brunch. Not being, what you might call, a Shoreditch hipster, we tend not to do brunch in this wattled neck of the woods.
As for the rest of it? Well, it was a jolly day out, but I think we can, in all honesty, scratch that off the bouquet list.

The magnificent Patricia Routledge as Hyacinth Bucket 

                                     

"The Blossoms are Fragile and Motionless"

This morning Dearest and I set off at the crack of something that resembled dawn. We walked down to the station to begin our journey to the Chelsea Flower show. A day off during the week, for him was like playing hooky, and we were in high spirits that cut through the early morning grump. However, an old man stopped us before we got to the train. We didn't know him, but he evidently needed to share some disturbing news. So that was how we heard about the atrocity in Manchester last night. We stopped and listened and shared his distress.
At Chelsea, an hour or so later, while  we were looking at some of the most beautiful blooms that Nature and man can achieve, we could not help but think of the flowers that will be left in memorial to those who lost their lives last night at Manchester's Arena.
A bleak day for many today.

T

Confessional....

I'm a bad mother. I destroyed whole galleries of my children's artwork over the years on the pretext that they were being kept in a file for posterity. Oh yes, I kept the odd one or two on the kitchen wall, to give the illusion that I was a good, caring mother, to convince the coffee-drinking contemporaries who came to visit with their off-spring. Every new offering was received with a, "That's lovely, darling," and with the merest sleight of hand, it would be loop-de-looped into the nearest bin.

So when I was left yesterday, unattended in my daughter's house for five hours, what was I to do? Sit on my hands? Like every good mother, I wanted to give my daughter a treat when she returned from a London appointment with our granddaughter. The hoover winked at me, and like a woman possessed, I gave the house a once-over. It's amazing how a problematic shoulder is anaesthetised by  altruistic valour. I whisked around the house, duster in hand, with glee, bordering on joy. It was then that I came upon a large glass plate containing an assortment of oddly-shaped pieces of plaster of paris. Closer inspection revealed them to be school-made fossils. To my recollection, they had been there for several weeks. Inspired, I thought, I will gather these lumpen mis-shapes, put them in an empty jam jar and stick them under the stairs. Nobody will notice, but this now looks so much better.
When everyone returned, there were no gasps of amazement at a radical transformation because the place looked very much as everyone expected to find it. I tell you, my work is of the highest order, and subtle with it. As the afternoon progressed, with my daughter back at the helm, I quietly collapsed in a heap in the living room with all four paws in the air.

The calm euphoria was broken by a wail from next door,
"Where's my grommet?"
Our grandson's grommet had worked its way out of his ear last week and was evidently, I soon discovered, a trophy.
"Oh Lord, I said, leaping up, "Where did you put it?"
"In the middle of my spider fossil which isn't here either!" Tragic face. His. And most likely mine.
This is Karma coming back big-time to bite me on the bum.
With no further ado, I plunged back into the dark recesses of the under stairs cupboard and produced the jam jar.
"It's so you can see your fossils clearly through the glass ( at the back of the cupboard) yet they are protected ( from visiting grandmothers). Let's see if your grommet is still here.."
I've never seen a grommet before, so didn't really know what I was looking for. But surely enough, it still remained (Thank God) nestled in the plaster spider fossil.
Safe as houses.

I am including a photograph so that no one reading this ever finds themselves in a similar position.
There's no stoppering altruism once it's been unleashed. Have I learnt a lesson? Maybe.

Let's call this spider, Wallace...

The proud owner of a grommet

On a Happy Note...

I won't  have an A# (an A sharp, not hash tag)  music teacher when I re-start my piano lessons later this month. It has taken me four years to get back on the piano stool. Not that I have one of those. Being a rank amateur who only took it up six years ago and endured for two years, the sharpness and gibes of a piano teacher with whom I had no rapport.
I wouldn't say the experience scarred me. Not this ol' elephant hide of mine. But the stingers linger in my mind, causing a rash that cannot be scratched. I had never learnt music in school on the basis that my eleven year old self could not see how this could possibly be of use to me. So learning to read music was a foreign language, and I was not a fast pupil. One day this teacher asked if I'd had "special needs" in school because evidently I wasn't learning as fast as some of her many, and mostly young students. Then, as my face betrayed signs of distress as I chomped my way through a musical exercise, she would tell me off for "gurning". Yes, I must have looked like Les Dawson, but at least he really could play the piano.
This new teacher believes that learning should be enjoyable. Music indeed, to my ears. So I have got out the music note cards and downloaded an app on the phone, and I am going to brush up on my musical notation so that I can give myself the very best start.
The girl needs discipline. (The boy needs his shed.)

Go to Youtube and listen to Les Dawson on the piano to brighten your day.

Another Job to Do....

My pet hate, before I retired, was doing tax returns. Always left to the last minute, the job would hang like the Ghost of Christmas Past over the whole Festive season. I always kept my receipts, like all conscientious self-employed, stuffed in a shoebox under the bed. It's because numbers bore me. They also frighten me a little, because I have never totally managed to make them do my bidding. The feeling of euphoria, once the return is complete, is in the same league as having your ears syringed. 

So when the, now familiar NHS envelope arrived first for Dearest, we didn't have to open it. It was met with a universal groan because it meant that mine too would be arriving soon. 

Yes, it's the Sh*t Kit, folks. 

The dear NHS is doing its very best to screen for Bowel Cancer. Every two years they send out the kit which is very neat and  compact. The first thing you do is put it in your In-tray. (No, not a metaphor..) It winks at you periodically, reminding that it is still on your to-do list. Then you get a reminder from the NHS. (A further drain on precious resources. Do you know the price of a stamp these days? Neither do I, until it's Christmas and then it blows me away. I am resolving to avoid this next time. New Year resolution..) Then, because you have taken out the instructions, studied them, as it's a whole two years since you last did this, and a whole lot of sh*t has happened in the interim, you carelessly lose the little cardboard dippers, they kindly sent. So you have to ring them up and say,

"I'm terribly sorry but I've lost the Pooh Sticks," realising that the very nice person at the end of the line has not read AA Milne, as she says she will send some replacement spatulas in the post. (Second New Year resolution: Do not open kit until you are ready to.. just, ready.)

So I would like to announce today, that there will be two envelopes winging their way to the NHS labs. One very happy Grand pappy, now the job is done. And as for me? Well, I discover, I would rather deal with Number Twos than grapple with the number-crunching of Tax Returns. 

This is being added to the Things I have Learnt list.

Seeing Stars...

Last night we were catching up with Granchester. We have started at the beginning of series one, and are doing some intensive watching in order to be in the right place to watch the episodes my brother has directed, later this month. It is not exactly a labour of love, because the series, a Detective series set in the 1950s in the Cambridgeshire town of Granchester, is rather charming and, as it turns out, very entertaining.
Last night we saw a fine performance by Mark Bonnar as a Harold Shipman character who played the part of a doctor on a spree of mercy-killing.
"Now where've we see that chap before?"
A familiar question from my left. I have to say that I am pretty good at identifying where we've seen actors previously. (Though not as good as Son et lumiere who can make it into an Art-form.)
I reeled off, AppletreeYard, Catastrophe, Unforgotten. (Embarrassing, really. Sounding a little like Kathy Bates here, I am your number one fan, Mark Bonnar, and I had no idea, until that moment.)
In other words, we have seen so much of this actor, that when I was standing at the bus-stop yesterday, I was amazed to see Mark Bonnar walking down my High Street pushing a buggy. He was listening to an older couple, and I immediately made verification on account of the fact that the lady was speaking with a Scottish accent. Gotcha.
I found myself ridiculously pleased by this star-spotting. At first I thought it might be that it was because I'd seen him on the telly so much, I was beginning to hallucinate. I've read about this as a sign of incipient madness... Then I felt embarrassed that I felt so excited. How uncool is that? Particularly, as I have worked,  star-unstruck, with a number of well-known actors over the years.
I determined that it can only be that in retirement, I am not getting out enough. So I will remedy this immediately, if not sooner.
I will get out more. Looking for Mark Bonnar. Obvs.

Mr Bonnar will be very pleased to find himself in the Bunion Chronicles

Helicopter Wife..?

Leaving home. Had enough. No, not at all...just off to do my grandmaternals in Buckingham.

So checklist:

Shirt ironed - check.

Sandwiches made for Dearest's lunch tomorrow  - check.

Note on front door to remind him sandwiches in fridge - check.

Recycling bins emptied so I return to fragrance - double check.

Charlie Bingham's fish pie for one in fridge - check.

(Dearest disappointed, as he'd enjoyed the fish pie for two, I'd inadvertently left for him last time, and has accused me of portion control. 474 calories, portion control? 

"My ass," I told him. "You don't want to become a Charlie Big'un."

Anyway, he was all prepared for his one night of independence and fending for himself. With a little remote help from me.

I rang him this evening. 

"How was the fish pie?" 

"It was ok, I think."

"What do you mean, you think?"

"Well, I warmed it up, and I'm not sure it was exactly piping. I hope I haven't given myself the gallopers..."

I think he'd focused on the pouring a glass of wine part (see above), and not the turning on the oven part. Maybe he'd expected Charlie to do more? Who knows? I just think that in a week where Theresa May and her husband discuss Boy and Girl jobs ( dear Lord, what century are we in?) that I quite possibly have overdone the Girl jobs. 

Now who's the Charlie?

Very strong resemblance to my Dearest husband except we do not have a dog of our own

Cracking Yokes...

When I start posting pictures of my supper on Instagram, please shoot me. It will be the thin end of the wedge. Rest assured, I will already have eaten the fat end.  However, I feel moved to tell you this evening about my simple repast. An omelette.
Now, I have, historically, been crap at making omelettes. Despite my best efforts, they have always turned out scrambled and overcooked. No more. I have been given an extraordinarily simple device which you put in the base of a frying pan.
Yes, I know I'm holding it as if it's a medieval contraception device, but despite its simplicity, it is devilish tricky to photograph.
The truth of the matter is that it requires no fat or oil, and therefore produces a handsome-looking omelette that is fiendishly healthy. It is, of course, pretty bloody tasteless unless you stick in some jolly tasty herbs and some full-fat cheddar.    
I don't know why I'm sharing this . You're probably all cordon bleu cooks that need no culinary advice from a Bunion blogger. Saves on the washing up?  No takers? I'll shut up.
             

Size still doesn't matter...

I was attacked by an aubergine this morning. No, I'm not speaking in code. It happened when I was casually unloading my Ocado shop. Being an exceptionally busy person, and wanting the world to know this, I ordered it to arrive between 7 and 8 this Sunday morning. Bit antisocial I realised, with a belated prick of conscience, as doors slammed  and drawers scraped during the unloading process from the big white van. And did he really have to whistle? I mean, who whistles, these days?

When, what do you know? I experienced a prick of an entirely different kind. Snigger ye not. Something sharp went into my hand. My immediate thought was that I'd been bitten by a banana spider, naturally. Because one is nervous about bananas ever since one read about such  an incident in the Daily Mail (once, for a treat). 

But no, I was holding an exceptionally large aubergine in my hand. And I mean large. Do we grow aubergines? I'll have to look it up.. but if we do, ours are usually half the size of this big boy. It was packaged in a polythene bag which I suspect was because THEY KNEW  they were sending out killer aubergines and they were PROTECTING THEMSELVES legally by adopting an otherwise unnecessary poly bag. 

I still feel fine. Not at all woozy. Well, certainly no more than usual after a convivial Saturday night. But I just wanted to put out a general warning to my dear readers. 

Beware of large aubergines with little pricks. Who'd have thought?

                    Country of origin, Italy, in case you're curious...

Prince Philip, in search of a quiet office.....

My brother's got a huge one.  We've got a small one, and it's leaky. David Cameron has got one on wheels.  Let me shed some light on the subject. I see, I already have. Yes, sheds are big in the news again. It's a seasonal thing. The first whiff of spring and women decide that the best place for a man is his shed. I am not sure it's coincidence.
Dearest doesn't have a shed. I have a shed. It sounds as though I am being possessive here. I assure you, I am not. It is just that my darling husband has absolutely no interest in shed-play whatsoveryever.
I make occasional reference to the need to upgrade this gently dilapidating construction at the side of our house. My playful sallies are met with a querulous brow. My mother's voice in my head reminds me, A man needs a shed. So occasionally, I press on.
"We have to plan ahead for your retirement," I say, a little too brightly.
"Who's retiring?" Newspaper lowered, but only briefly.
Truth to tell, Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, has buggered things for me, by retiring at the age of 95. 95?  By which token, he makes me look like a laggard, retiring in her early sixties, whilst reinforcing the notion that Dearest has got plenty of miles left on the treadmill. I have an unquiet suspicion that the prospect of spending hours gently potting with his Ever Devoted, scares him shed-less.
However, ever since I came across  The Ladybird Book of The Shed, I have gone quiet on my renovation plans.
It reminds me,
Be careful what you wish for... It may start with organising the shed but I've heard tell that sometimes it transfers to the kitchen. Oh Lordy.

The Man-ual

Inspirational extract, if you are looking for a Bag for Fluff...

Sterling Performance....

Yesterday I went to a matinee in the West End. "The Girls". You probably haven't heard of it. As a title it really doesn't pack any punch. My daughter asked me today how "Girls on Girls" went. Now that is a catchy title, but I was quick to correct her.  It is the musical version of "Calendar Girls" with music by Tim Firth and Gary Barlow. Lively, funny lyrics, great singing. Dismal music, I thought.
A group of redoubtable  members of the Women's Institute, twenty years ago, in Yorkshire, raised  money for a cancer hospital by posing naked for a calendar. All tastefully done, with cakes and watering cans covering nethermost nipples. The daring enterprise was inspired by the loss of a husband to blood cancer. An immensely popular film and subsequent stage show continue to contribute to the charity.

All heart-warming stuff, I'm sure you'll agree, but something I have earnestly avoided until now. Knowing the premise, I have not actively sought something  calculated to make me cry before uplifting me. However, one of my dearest friends has been playing in the ensemble, until yesterday when she took on the role of Marie, the pain in the neck, naysayer who tries her best to quash the approval of the WI central office.
There she was, my wee pal from University, holding her own with flair and poise. Jane, whose determination to pursue an acting career, remains undiminished, is a classic example of someone who has followed her dream. It's a brutally romantic dream, yet to see her back in the West End, gives me enormous pleasure and pride. She kept her clothes on too.
This enables me to pin on my personal accolade to her. The Golden Bunion Award. 
Congratulations, my dear girl. Bravo!

                              

Time for a Bargain...

Do you know what? When your drawers are full to overflowing... No, not your drawers, lady, but drawers, as in chests of. No, this is not about my chest. Really, settle down at the back. When your house is full of schtuff that you move around, put under beds, stuff in drawers, cram into chaotic cupboards, the last thing you need to do on a Sunday morning is to go to an antiques fair.

I think the reason I will give you is a pretty weak one. I haven't been to one for over twenty years. I asked my friend Anthony if he would take me. I have been buying some Whitefriars glass off him recently and I knew that this venue had yielded some lucky finds. He gamely took on the notion of my attempting to cut out the middleman, and suggested we went together last Sunday.

I didn't find any glass, but I did find a delightful wee clock. I asked Anthony who'd made it as I'd forgotten my glasses as well as the £1.50 entry fee.
"A Mr Foreign," he said dismissively.
I didn't care. A wind up working clock in our bedroom for a tenner? Marvellous.

Got home to Bruce Springsteen on top volume, the smell of coffee and a full spread of the Sunday papers. Dearest was evidently missing me madly.
Ten quid? Small price to pay, for two very happy customers, that Sunday morning.

Spot the wisteria on the wall?

Wisteria Hysteria..

We used to have one. It died. It was probably about 60 years old and had been a show-stopper on the front of our house for nigh on thirty years. It had been cultivated, we were told, from a cutting taken from WS Gilbert's house, The Grimsdyke in Harrow.  So it wasn't just any old Wisteria, it was a plant with provenance. Class act.
No longer do people stand opposite and gaze with wonderment.  As proud owners, we used to smugly bask in our inherited horticulture. Pruning it, before it took us over entirely. The bedroom windows would all but disappear behind the profuse foliage that would appear after the first triumphant blooming. It really did give us a huge amount of pleasure. We knew however, that a small tree, as this had become, was not really healthy for the structure of a house that had no foundations in its original part. We had to accept that nature had taken its course and we removed the dead trunk.
The front of the house, in winter, looks cleaner. Sharper without the etiolated branches of a dormant wisteria stretching across, untidily. I have started to grow some Shropshire Lads up one side of the house to console myself with roses. Yet, always at this time of year, a broodiness comes over me and a yearning that intensifies with the proliferation of wisterias I see everywhere.
Blousy, showy, luxuriant pendulous blooms, sinewy trunks and fragrance... I could be describing myself.
Thankfully no longer pendulous. Working hard on the sinewy.