Farewell, my lovelies...

Well, hello, readers everywhere. I've been on a break. Not an exotic one. A long weekend in Southport actually. And very nice it was too. I have to confess that one of my primary objectives in accepting this invitation to stay with these friends, was to try out their new toilet. Yes, they have got one of these weird and wonderful ones that wash your derriere, dry it with warm air and then powder it. Well, not the last bit, obviously. I spent the whole weekend sucking in my cheeks to gather courage to use this magical feat of engineering.  I finally steeled myself to go to their ensuite. Only to find that mine host was truly enthroned. I beat a hasty retreat and the moment passed. So I have to say, I cannot report back.
Rest assured I will, at any time in the future.. However, I have to warn you that I am thinking of extending my current blog break. It has occurred to me that it's a bit rude to bugger off into the wide blue yonder without so much as a wave goodbye. You might think that I'd been run over by a bus or something.
I would like to think that come the autumn I will be impelled to continue. However, at the moment I am about to embark on further house renovations, involving plaster being removed and replaced in living areas. The garden, small though it is, is demanding more attention, and I have to confess, I am really enjoying the atavistic thrill of slugicide. I have to practice the piano to calm myself. Currently on Summertime which should be perfected by Christmas; Sherlock's theme, by Christmas 2019, and Fly Me to the Moon by next week.

So thank you all for following me for the past couple of years. I have so enjoyed myself. If I've occasionally made you smile, then that makes me very happy indeed.
I wish you all a happy Summer.
If you listen carefully, you can hear the tortured chords of a rookie pianist playing us out....

"Who's Eaten My Petunias?" You sing it, I'll play it...

Leave a garden for a few days at this time of year and expect a jungle on your return. Mine was well-watered, thanks to the ministrations of my sister-in-law. It was also, in part, well-eaten. A bit like me on holiday, come to think about it.
Shrubs are shrubbing like mad and in a small garden need to be given a haircut. Roses are blossoming earlier than anticipated and filling the air with fragrance. Shropshire Lad out the front and Gertrude Jekyll out the back.

Before I'd left for Cornwall, I'd planted a petunia I'd been given, amongst some established violas in a tub. It never occurred to me that slugs and snails would slime their way across the patio and up a terracotta pot to munch the blooming lot.  I showered the slug pellets with maniacal zest over what was left.
I then looked at the gooseberry bush. It was laden with small green pellets that you could call young gooseberries. The leaves also bore signs of another garden invader: tiny black caterpillars. Last year they munched their way through leaves and goosegogs, so this year, I cleared the branches of every berry. Poached with a bucket-load of sugar, they were delicious.





Summer is a-coming-in.
"Summer Time" is my latest piece on the piano. As I resumed my practice, a gruff  not quite sotto enough voce was heard to say,
"Well, that's one thing I haven't missed.."
What can he mean?

Uplifting tales or pressing the wrong buttons?

When I worked at BBC TV centre in the late eighties, the lifts were a heavily relied-upon form of transportation. If one arrived, you would run for it. To save a tedious wait for the next.
I remember being one of a crowd that had sardined itself inside one of these capacious boxes. The comic writer Denis Norden leapt in as the doors were closing and found himself facing a crowd of twenty people.
“Now I expect you’re all wondering why I’ve asked you here!” he chortled. He probably used that line habitually but it never failed to please.

I dare say Richard Ned Lebow, the hapless professor, thought he too would get a little chortle, when he found himself in a lift. When asked which floor he required, he answered,  Ladies Lingerie.  He hadn’t reckoned on his audience containing a raging feminist who took exception to this. This feeble joke she believed, was  designed to offend and denigrate women. He has refused to apologise (He should of course, have waded in with, I'm sorry I dropped a bit of a bloomer there...) and it is now being taken to another level. (The Men swear department?) It certainly makes me swear at the supreme idiocy of the situation.

Years ago, when people asked you what you were working on, you’d say the name of the director followed by his show. Like Mike Newell's Mayor's Charity. One day, in a lift at the Beeb I was asked what show I was doing. To which I replied,
“Roland Joffe’s Willy." as the lift doors closed.

I wouldn’t have offended anyone then, and in a similar context I wouldn't be taken to task now,  as seemingly I have a licence to say what I want.  Men, it seems, no longer have that option.
The swing of the pendulum is so weighted in women's favour that  instead of being mesmerised, we  all should be asking questions.
No one seems prepared to stick their heads above the parapet. To ask the right questions.

Star-Grazing in Cornwall....

Nobody ever wants to be a sub-prefect. Or a deputy Head Girl. In the same way, I imagine, that if you are a celebrity then you don't really want to be a minor celebrity. So with this is mind, I feel a little on the mean side by describing the two well-known faces I spotted at fifty yards as minor slebs. They were staying at our hotel in Cornwall last week.  I was as chuffed as punch to have identified them, as I only know one from the radio. I then studiously avoided eye-contact with them for the rest of the week. Because the last thing you want to do when on holiday is make eye-contact with outsiders. Nest-ce pas? That goes for me, rather than them. At the end of the week they might have been wondering, "Doesn't anyone here know who we bloody are??"

But the hotel we stay at, is such a charming bastion of English refinement  (boasting an hors d'oeuvres trolley as well as a pudding trolley) that nobody heeded their presence and concentrated on consuming as many calories as it is humanly possible to do, in any given day.
What I did learn, however, is that when, in future, I spot someone well-known, I do not discretely nudge Dearest-soul-of-discretion, and draw them to his attention. Not unless I want to hear the immortal words,
"Who??? Never heard of 'em!"
Not even when I Googled him a picture.
Maybe I was the only one to recognise them.
If they are reading this Bunion Blog in search of guidance and stumble across this entry then I am sure they will be impressed by my consummate discretion.

A Lighter Inbox...

Oh, I feel refreshed. Revitalised. Nothing to do with the wedding. Caught up on that. A précis  on late night news... plenty. The bride looked exquisite; the groom looked like.... Harry. Some magnificent frockage. Hattily, nattily, stylish. And all went swimmingly.
Marvellous feat of British pageantry.

I'm actually talking about my Inbox. And yours. Because this is big stuff. I am so tired of Bitcoin emails. So fed up with being seduced by Russian women. Why don't they send me some women from North Yorkshire? I don't need any more insurance, and am not ready to put my first down payment on my funeral. Thank you, thank you, but finally no thank you.... No more raking through hundreds of unsolicited emails searching for the one that a friend might have sent you. Or missing the only genuine one because you have been trigger-happy in exterminating  all the trash.

Now we have emails asking you nicely to press this button if you wish to continue to receive emails from their company. No, thanks! The power. The pleasure. No more bombardment. No more delectable temptation. Control.

My Inbox is going to be lean and mean.
I'd like to have been mean with the Ben and Jerry's  cookie dough this evening. I'd like to have been mean with the Digestive Lights I spread with butter. It's all because I wasn't mean with the Porta 6 tonight. Which means that there is fat chance of me being lean in the foreseeable future.
If only I could zip up my personal Inbox....

Eve of the Royal Wedding ..

Well, I don't know about you, but I will be getting myself an early night. I want to look and feel my best, in readiness for the Harry and Meghan wedding fest. Tomorrow is the big day.
Steady the buffs. You might be watching, but I have to say, really,  that I will be quite happy to dip into a few edited highlights on News at Ten.
Because my dears, I have already done the Royal Wedding. Do you remember my mentioning a wedding filming date a month or so ago? Well, I was attending The Windsors Royal Wedding, filmed for Channel 4. If you like satire served hot hot hot, then this is the dish, or rather, the silver server for you. It is very funny. Rude and irreverent. Just my cup of cha.
So when gaga Britain is glued to their TV sets tomorrow, I will be planting my begonias. I wish the happy couple joy. And if they have as much fun as I did on those four days filming, they will have a ball.
Cheers! Time for one of my Negronis, I feel.

Not to be confused....

In Celebration of Big Organs...

Earth Wind and Fire at the Royal Albert Hall in 1997 was brilliant. But I swear it started my tinnitus. Last night, similar seats, the Grand Organ Celebration almost finished off the job. Oh boy. One of the biggest organs in the world and at times, I felt blown away. Literally. Not metaphorically.

I was happy to hear Toccata and Fugue in D minor which meant,  as a Hammer horror movie fan in my youth, I expected to see Christopher Lee at any moment. But really, apart from a cheerful rendering of Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue on a piano, I have to say that we did not really engage with the music.

The concert was really for our guest's benefit who is an organ master. Even he had plenty to say about it. His comments were more technical than ours, of course.  When it came to the finale which was an improvised concerto, we were told by Wayne Marshall that improvising was like standing naked in front of an audience. Thankfully, no room for three more organs on stage. That was a relief. And so it was that we experienced one of the most magnificent organs in the world, and wished that we could have escaped at half-time.

I hope you appreciate that I have not resorted to any Mrs Organ-Morgan type of cheap joke in the style of Dylan Thomas.
Occasionally, I can demonstrate refinement and good taste.
God, how dull!

It's a whopper...

Neutrons that Fire Together Wire Together.....

I'm a sucker for supplements. Do they work? I wouldn't know, as I never stick with one long enough to find out. Years ago I purchased a bottle of Gingko Biloba which is meant to improve memory. It amused my friends to hear that I kept forgetting to take it.
At my age any glitch in memory, or poor word retrieval strikes fear into my heart. Could this be...
you know... that thing? Oh Lord, it'll come to me....  You know what I mean?

So any article on memory immediately grabs my attention. Is there some new trick in the book that can help? There was one this morning that caught my eye. Most of it I already knew.
Mnemonics are a fine device, provided you can remember them in the first place.
Write things down physically rather than type them. Generational thing... I don't type reminders.. still at the post-it note-level of evolution.
Blueberries and brussel sprouts (though not combined). Yes, both feature in our diet.
No, the new item to me, was caffeine. Apparently, a dose of caffeine after you have seen what you wish to remember has significant impact on memory.

Then I read a fascinating article about Sea slugs. The study is published in eNeuro (which is obviously where I didn't find it).  The experiment  involved a certain amount of sea slug cannibalism.. (See what I mean? Riveting stuff..). Leading researchers in the University of California  claim to have achieved an RNA memory transplant between living individuals of the same species.

Wowzers! If I take an extra large slug of coffee I might remember to tell Dearest all about it at the end of the day...

The best coffee ever...

Sleeping with the lights on...?

You will be forgiven for thinking that I am a bone-brain. No, come on, admit it. I'll never know. But the image you have of me is of a gin-swilling hedonist who does nothing but watch TV in her spare time.  I said it first. It lessens the pain. But you are only partly right. For I have most recently got back into reading.

The reading muscle is like any other muscle in the old bod. It needs to be flexed, if not given regular exercise. I have to confess that my reading muscle, unlike the rest of my finely-honed physique (Excuse me while I choke on my own spit... do you ever do that, as a matter of interest? No? Sorry I mentioned it.) yes, my reading muscle is distinctly flabby.
I have to confess that my reluctance to read is partly induced by Dearest who loves to read before he turns off the light. Can anyone explain to me how you get to sleep while the light is on? Because when he finally switches it off, he starts snoring in 0.5 nanoseconds. So reading has become a sort of bete noir.

But now it's bonsoir bete noir ( Forget the Welsh, I'm on a roll here or is it a baguette?) because I am reading again. So here is my list of must-reads: Proust, A la Recherché du Temps Perdu; Tolstoy, War and Peace followed by Joyce, Ulysses.
Asleep? Me too. Even with the light on. I am merely toying with you. Reading muscle? You need reading biceps to tackle that lot. No, I have to say my choice is far more prosaic. A few months ago I read Jane Harper's debut novel called The Dry. Set in Australia, an intriguing mystery, quite engaging. Her latest, A Force of Nature made me feel that this was one she'd written earlier, and found it under the bed. Very tame.

I always get a bit antsy when a novel receives huge acclaim. Eleanor Oliphant is  Completely Fine seems to have been universally loved.
My Glaswegian aunt had a GP who was renowned for saying she was "Fine,"even when suffering from terminal cancer. When pressed, she said that it stood for "Frustrated Irascible Neurotic and Exhausted." As an expression, subsequently, it has always made me look below the surface. Dear Eleanor Oliphant is far from fine. It is a perfect piece describing the inner world of a woman with Aspergers. You won't read that in the reviews; at least in none of those I've read. But it is indeed the case. Females with this condition are very undiagnosed. They tend to fly beneath the medical radar. This is a very charming portrayal that gives you great insight into her world. Beautifully written, it is a very gentle read with amusing social observation. And set in Glasgow. Auntie Margaret would have approved. And her GP.

I would like it recorded, however, that my reading into the small wee hours has no effect whatsoever on my bed-fellow. But miraculously, I am far more tolerant of the nasal orchestration to my right...

Amazingly, feeling fine...

Welsh Matters...

You wouldn't say I was partisan would you? I have found these eggs and to be honest, I can't say they taste any different to any other egg I've ever eaten. But I like the name and the graphics, and I'm hoping they will turn me into a prop forward for the Scarlets (Up the Scarlets! ) Llanelli's rugby team which supplies vast numbers of players for the Welsh national team.
So really, while I am only Welsh in terms of my parentage, I am interested in anything Welsh. Like the woollen mill at Melin Tregwynt, and Welsh cakes (not the same from Waitrose). Male Voice choirs. (May they all remain 100% male and none of this Me too stuff ). Tom Jones (in his hey-day for her); Katherine Jenkins (any day, for Him).

So last week, when The Sunday Times suggested a Welsh drama, Keeping Faith, that could rival the Scandi noir that we've all taken to, I was intrigued. It had been broadcast in English and Welsh. The lead actress, Eve Myles, is English but had wanted the part so badly she had learnt Welsh for it. (Impressive, good-girl.) It had only a week to go on I-player, so we gave it some welly.  Well'e didn't, because he fell asleep in the final episode. No stamina. I thought that it might have had English subtitles, and that we would hear the spoken Welsh, but no. Ours was, naturally, the English version.

I really wanted to love it, but it was all a bit too much. Too much passion. I'm not talking nudity, but hwyl. For me, I confess, it all needed to be toned down a notch. I couldn't help feeling that it would have played much better in Welsh, somehow.This got me thinking about the smattering of Welsh I learnt as child.
Today I looked up where I could take Welsh lessons.
I expect the moment will pass. Most of my moments do, if I sit very still.
Maybe, I'll just keep eating the eggs instead. Up the Scarlets!

Bank Holiday Weekend May 2018...

  What an absolute beauty of a Bank Holiday weekend. Bluebells and blue skies in Rutland. I shouldn't really tell you about Rutland because it ought to be kept a secret. It is the tiniest county in the UK. Each year we visit Rutland Water, a reservoir. We walk around it, navigating sheep and cyclists, and listening to silence that is only interrupted by birdsong. For us townies it is, as Dearest says every year, "Soul Food". A cliché  which irritates me, as  it is also a reminder that he is yet again thinking of his next meal. Which is very tough on someone who is studiously not. But I have to confess that there is more than an ounce of truth in every cliché, and so I wholeheartedly agree that this place soothes the battered spirit.
And is, thankfully, short on battered cod.

Take me home, country roads..

Man-training Has to Start Young....

The day loomed large in the diary. The date, as it it got nearer, seemed to vibrate with significance in a small household in Buckingham. And in particular, caused trepidation in the heart of its youngest member. (Discounting the dog who, if such matters interest you, wasn't bothered in the slightest.) This was the week when eight-year-old Joseph would go on an outward bound activity camp with his year group for three days and two nights.
Well, the chap was nervous. His mother was also nervous, but masked her anxiety by buying him new wet-weather gear, new underpants that bore no trace of SpiderMan (so un-cool now) and new wellies. The bag was packed, stuffed full, and the intrepid young man set off on Monday morning without so much as a kiss goodbye, or a backward glance. The same child who had assured his mother, the night before, that he was "Way beyond nervous," and on the morning of departure that he "wouldn't mind too much" if he was late and missed the bus.
The weather, the next two days, was atrocious, but we all knew he had ample changes of clothing.
He returned yesterday afternoon, in one piece, lugging his small suitcase and saying that he didn't fancy doing it again next year, thanks very much.
Gradually, fortified by food and drink he began to reveal more positive aspects of his mini-adventure, and his mother was relieved that it hadn't been a complete disaster. She steeled herself to open the suitcase which she fondly imagined would be stuffed with disgustingly muddy clothes. Instead of which, under a towel she found everything pristine. Suspiciously, in the manner that  she had packed herself.
"Joseph," she called, "Are you wearing the same pants that you wore on Monday?"
He answered ruefully, "'Fraid so.."
"And your socks?"
"I towel-dried them each night. I couldn't find any of my stuff..."
It had been astonishingly invisible under the towel. Oh Lord. Oh my dear Lord. When I heard that, I wasn't so worried about his wonging underwear. No, not at all. It was perfectly obvious that this was an inherited trait. From his grandfather. Sorry, let me be clear, in case you think my Dearest husband has a weakness for re-cycled underwear. It has taken him years to understand that you look under and behind when doing a search. He is so much better than he used to be. However, as for Buckingham...
Early training must start at once.

Dearest, after 38 years of training now searches under the top layer

Have you tried my Cow Pie...?

My late mother-in-law was a Cow Pie aficionado. More familiarly known as Cottage pies, we called them this because they were always Desperate Dan size, big enough to feed an army. Minced beef that had been minced until it had become almost a Pâté . (A sure sign that she had minced the left-over beef from the Sunday roast, at least the week before. So vintage was always a little uncertain.) Enshrouded in pale, slightly yellowing mashed potato. This would be delivered to greet us after we had come home from holiday, or simply just because she never came empty-handed.

One New Year she delivered a Turkey Pie. It was the fifth  of January, so the provenance  of this here turkey was in no doubt at all. I thanked her and put it to the back of the fridge. Where of course, finding the effort and flagrant waste of binning it quickly, simply too much, I let it remain. Until she turned up on the hop, one afternoon. She was collecting her dishes from all her daughters-in-law.  The children looked at me, as they knew that the dubious turkey pie had remained in situ. I gave them a look which suggested that she needed to be engaged in conversation while I disappeared.

I ran upstairs to the bathroom with the pie. With my bare hands I scooped out the mush and meat and put it in the bathroom bin. Washed it out and rubbed it dry with a towel. I reckon 90 seconds the whole operation. The children's faces were astounded as I returned with such speed, clutching a shiny dish, professing it had been delicious.

These days, I find myself making Cow Pies for all and sundry. Made with best quality minced beef, and sometimes with a slug of wine thrown in, should there be any to hand. Seeing my octogenarian friend, Joy Burton? Bunch of flowers and a Cow pie. Going  to Buckingham or Belsize? Cow Pie.
Broken arm? Cow Pie. It is my personal panacea. Please God, let no one call it my signature dish..

I am turning into my mother-in-law when I  complain that all my smaller dishes are out on loan.
I will however, be checking bathroom bins wherever I deliver, very carefully in future. You know, just in case..

Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones...let's praise the NHS!

So a new baby has been born. A royal one. When a friend told me Kate had gone into hospital on Monday, I had to ask, Kate who? Anyway, suffice to say the new baby has a name, Louis.  Not to be confused with King Louis (of the Jungle) which was the only Louis my colourist had ever heard of. So is it Louis, as in the French Louis, or Louis as in the English Lewis? Who knows? I haven't listened to the news since the big announcement, so cannot verify. Anyway, my colourist was disappointed, as she thought they might have gone for something alternative like Milo. (Sign of a mis-spent youth watching Tweenies, obvs.)
So I nail my lack of royal-watching to the mast, as I deal with a week of broken bones. And what a pile there was. First up, or rather down for the count, was my dear friend Beverley who took a nose dive and broke her arm on the streets of London. An oblique fracture. Which to the likes of you and me, means vertical and exceptionally painful. Three and half hours in a fracture clinic today, she emerged with a state-of-the-art sling and the the stoical heroism of one who will learn to manage with one arm for as long as it takes.
Then our Lewis, playing rugby on Sunday broke his neck. To break one's neck was a threat that my mother issued as a warning to either of us venturesome children, with the implication that it meant death. Thankfully, in this instance, it has resulted in painkillers and a neck brace, plus a four-day stay in hospital. No more Rugby for Lew. But he will be fine.
Yesterday, at Slimming World, one of our members cycled, as usual, to our morning class, and collapsed upon arrival. An ambulance arrived within ten minutes, followed by a helicopter which whisked him off to intensive care.
In each case, the beleaguered National Health service playing a vital role in our daily lives. We should stop occasionally to count our blessings.

Milo says three cheers for the NHS and is hoping Meghan will name hers after him

Bad Behaviour..

I was standing on the platform at Finchley Road yesterday. Minding my own business, waiting for the tube. A group of three youths were dodging about near me. One of them stood on my foot. I turned and said,
"Steady!"
Couldn't have been a gentler admonishment. You agree? Absolutely. Matter closed? But no.
"Ooh, ooh, ooh! You hurt me! You paedophile!" came the response.
I looked the little toe-rag the eye and and gave him one of my burners and I did not look away until he ran off with his mates.
When I got home, I gave myself the same steely-eyed glare when I looked in the mirror. Damn well scared myself. I hope that my evil eye was the last thing the little bastard saw before he went to sleep last night.
But I think that's probably wishful thinking on my part.

Hedging my bets...

Who'd have thought it was twelve weeks or thereabouts since Christmas? That was the last time I visited Gustav, and my hair has been looking like a topiary in need of a buzz cut. I exaggerate, of course. My hair was showing softer contours, something of which my mother would have approved. However, when short hair reaches a certain tipping point, you get up every morning looking as if you've spent the night on a ghost train.
It was a gorgeous day in Marylebone. Whilst the sun was giving it its best shot, it was still cool in the shade of buildings. Two hours with Gustav and I emerge sharper, and sassier from badinage and re-shaping.
I return home and Lillie next door, pops up from behind the hedge which she has been trimming. Now Lil is my kind of gardener: an all or nothing girl. She had been giving it some, all day in full sun. Well, she is more than a little Italian. She is also a hairdresser and there I was, with my newly coiffed locks.
She noticed immediately, of course. We've talked of this before and I have expressed my unwavering allegiance to Gustav F.
"I could do that for you, and just as well," she started.
"Ah, but I would hurt Gustav enormously if I jumped ship, Lillie." I replied.
"No, I understand," she said, "my clients say the same thing to me."
Ever so slightly uncomfortable, I said, "Well Lil, when I''m old and frail..."
"Then I'll tell you to fuck off!" she said.
And we fell about laughing.

On the hottest day of the year..

I just love a good statistic. I could just say that it has been bloody hot today. Which if you are are fellow Brit, I won't be telling you anything you don't already know. 6.15pm and it's currently 28 degrees. The hottest April day in seventy years. Delightfully abnormal and we're all running around like  a dog with two tails and barking at postmen. Yes, a little unusual sunshine and we go bonkers.
Well, I decided to put the clement weather to good use. We have waved goodbye to the painters which means that finally I had to tackle the restoration of the garden. A small courtyard affair,  nothing grand.
The patio is mostly in the shade of the house, apart from a couple of hours of direct sunshine, so inevitably the paving gradually takes on the green verdigris of light moss and algae. It can only be removed with a jet-wash. Today was the day. It's a bit like childbirth, you forget how awful a job it is. What I hadn't factored in, was that the grouting between the paving slabs is shot, which means that the gaps between the paving have become repositories for soil and miscellaneous crap. Very soon it became apparent that this clean-up job was getting a whole lot messier as I jet-propelled aforementioned miscellaneous crap all over my newly-painted white walls. They looked as if they had been target practice for a murder of crows.
One job spawning three more. I am done in.
Just call me Hyacinth..

Why talk about Bunions in a Bunion Blog?

This is a question which haunts me from time to time. Then the way to deal with any hovering spectre is to turn on the light and ignore it. There are far more interesting things to talk about than your bunions, or slightly more fascinating, my bunions. (One ex-bunion on the left and one incipient but not critical one, on the right. If you're doing a bunion audit, by any any chance?  I thought not.)

For the unbunionated, the topic of bunions is boring. For the bunionated, or Bunionistas, as a preferable term, bunions are a source of constant discomfort that sometimes reach such a crescendo of pain that one is driven to decision-making. Should you have the damn things lopped off or do you continue to stagger around wearing flattie strappy sandals that let them poke out, or squeeze them into shoes in the vain hope they will make comfortable bunion-pockets either side and enable you to walk around with a smile, instead of looking as though you have swallowed lemon juice?

In January 2016 I had a bunion operation. Around this time I thought I would write a Bunion Blog to chart my experience in the hope that it would give some insight to those teetering on the surgery decision.  Obviously I ran out of stuff to say about bunions as bunions, frankly, took a back seat in my life. But by this time, I had got into a writing habit and enjoyed keeping a diary. Instead of looking for another title I blundered on with TGBB because I was rather fond of it. The only snag is that people searching for bunion blogs come across mine. They read the latest post and think why is this mad woman banging on about her life, with nary a word written about her bunions?

This was brought home to me by a recent comment from Ms C.Yan of Singapore who wrote:
"Where is bunion?"
Where is bunion indeed? So I helpfully directed her to the start of the blog where she could find plenty of bunion talk. So I am writing this post as a sign-post, really, to weary Bunionistas in search of hard core information. Go back to the beginning!

For everyone else who has remained with me so far, I thank you for your loyal readership. I hope I sometimes make you smile. I certainly don't set out to make you think. There are too many other things going on in the world to do that.

Taking a cold shower... is soooo good for you...

As a schoolgirl, I would eschew any physical activity whenever I could, to avoid breaking out into a sweat. All I wanted to do was sit, read and learn. And talk, of course. PE was a complete anathema to me, whether it was the sheer pointlessness of running up and down a lacrosse pitch, or thwacking footlessly at shuttlecocks that never reached my racquet. Swimming? You got hopelessly wet. And had to drag your clothes back on over a half-damp body with only five minutes to reach your Chemistry class in time. Mainly because the fiendishly flame-haired McCann, had insisted that you did not use the steps and hoisted yourself unaided out of the pool using upper-arm strength only. No wonder I hated it. I can still feel the score marks on those meaty thighs. So no, a cold shower was something that I used to dodge wherever possible, on the basis that I was still as fragrant as a rose.

Yesterday I read about the virtues of cold baths. I had no idea they could be so therapeutic. The claim is that they boost  the immune system; they stimulate circulation; they improve hair and skin, and they are good for those suffering from depression because they are mood-enhancing. Oh, and I forgot to mention, FAT-busting, in that they speed up your metabolism. I ask you, what is not to love in that list?

So yesterday morning, I took my first cold shower. Yes, a shower, not a bath, as I thought I would do this in sensible stages. So first I turned on the shower. Not bad, I thought. Luke warm. Stuck a shoulder underneath. I will turn it down a bit. Whoah! Colder? Yes, I can do colder. Few more seconds to acclimatise. Does this thing go any colder?
YEEEES IT DOES! I gave an operatic shriek. I think I was a high E or even an F. Or maybe even a blend of the two.
Well now, I felt really warm and vibrant when I'd dried off. Felt great all day. So much so that I waited until I had the house to myself before having my second shower this morning. Because I find that if I sing loudly, in the way of a medieval plain-song, if you're interested (not that I have any experience of this, but I've never let that hold me back) I can distract myself from the breathtaking impact of the cold water. By God, the acoustics in our shower room are something else. I sound marvellous.

Actually, self-praise is no recommendation ,as my dear Mama used to say, but what I have just done is to remind myself that unless I re-adjust the dial right now, there will be no medieval plain-song emitting from the bathroom tomorrow morning when Dearest does his ablutions. No, I would expect to hear a veritable Anglo-Saxon roar. Glad you reminded me.

Dial it down if you dare! 

Going Dutch?

"How about Amsterdam?" said Dearest to me, about a month ago.
"What about Amsterdam?" I replied.
"The Eurostar is operating a direct route from St Pancras in early April for the first time."
Ever the reluctant traveller, I agreed to a long weekend as it appeared blissfully simple. As indeed it turned out to be.  8.30am departure from London and 13.12 arrival, local time in Holland.  Four hours. Quicker than a train journey to Scotland. Terrific. I recommend it.
The journey back had to be via Brussels because the Dutch have not quite got the return journey sorted. But even with the added of frisson of a delayed train, our connection was held because otherwise one hundred and twenty passengers would have been stranded when the last train from Brussels departed. So there we are, that was the exciting bit. We take the train because Dearest does not like flying. In fact, he doesn't give a flying about who knows this. I like this about him.

I also like the way he can pick a great city break and requisition sunshine too. He demurs when I congratulate him. Neither of us had been to Amsterdam since we were very young, so it was really as if for the first time. We found it to be absolutely charming. The architecture fascinating, and the people welcoming. The cyclists are crazy and own the city. You do have to have your de Witts about you, as you stand to be in peril from either a bike or a tram. It was such beautiful weather we  postponed museum visits for another time. Instead, we took a relaxing canal tour and spent a wonderful morning at the Keukenhof.

I had, in fairness, no overwhelming desire to visit the Keukenhof which I had imagined to be like an enormous garden centre where tulips and daffodils extended as far as the eye could see. It is, however, a spectacular spring garden with over seven million tulips, daffodils and hyacinths spread over 80 acres. I thought it was absolutely glorious. Funnily enough, my companion was less enthused. He wasn't comfortable with the serried ranks of the flowers and found it all too formal.
"I like things less-manicured. Not too perfect. Like that piece of woodland with random daffodils that appear as if by chance, not design."
Who'd have thought it would have taken some Dutch landscape gardening to throw light on our relationship? I am just wondering where to put the random daffodils...

Keukenhof

A Fine Kettle of Fish...

Have you heard a Boeing 747 take off? Well, that was how our old kettle sounded when coming to the boil.
"Sorry, how many Russians expelled? You'll have to shout because I'm boiling the kettle!"
And when you peered into it (which I have to say, I rarely did, because I filled it through the spout) you could see a whole barrier reef of encrusted limescale that was totally impenetrable by occasional de-scaling missions.
If you want a gritty cup of tea, then look no further.
Sorry. Sorry. That is all in the past. We went to a hotel recently where the in-house supplies consisted of Jing tea. We had a cup of English Breakfast that knocked our usual brew into a cocked hat. We snaffled the remaining complimentary sachets, and put the kettle on when we got home. It tasted nothing like the tea over which we had so recently enthused.  Pondering over this disappointment, I decided it was the kettle that was at fault. The limescale impregnated water was affecting our tea and coffee drinking experience. Plus WE COULDN"T HEAR A BLOODY THING WHILE THE KETTLE WAS ON.
Which we all know can be highly convenient from time to time.
So the new kettle arrived today. The best possible price from Amazon Prime and producing the most lovely cup of tea imaginable.
It is meant to be Whisper boil technology. A recommendation, even, from the Noise Abatement Society. And anti-wobble feet. I could do with a pair of those. Especially after one of my special Negronis. However, in the meantime, I have to confess that the noise is no less intrusive than the last one. Just as well, as,
"Bloody hell! How much?"
is drowned out beautifully....

Fasten your seatbelts, we're getting ready for take-off!

Below the Surface: Danish Drama at home...

We love all things Danish in this house. We embrace the unpronounceable hygge in every way. I'm not sure hygge includes Danish pastries, but, if it did, we would need no second bidding to scoff them. Well, one of us would.  I personally am back on the wagon.

Left to our own devices this Easter break, we resorted to Box Sex which seems like a very Danish thing to do on an unremittingly dreich (Scottish not Danish) long weekend. Recently, tired of the endless gore, murder and missing children that seem to inhabit our television choices, we found the American series, This is Us.  Initially appealing, we watched it until eventually one of us said that he couldn't take any more. Which is what happens when you eat cheesecake, slice after slice every night. You go off cheesecake. It is not the cheesecake's fault.

So as an anti-dote to the saccharine, I scrolled through the schedules until I found a Danish drama. Now we like a Danish drama. Borgen? What was there not to love about Borgen?  So I found Below the Surface, a hostage drama, not overtly violent, on catch-up TV. Now the enormous bonus of reading subtitles is that you have to engage with the story and cannot go to sleep whilst protesting that you are still listening to the dialogue.  I was, however, quite content to stop after a number of episodes, but Dearest was right up there with the action and wanted to push on. Which we did.
Until we got to the final episode. This was no boxed sex. This was catch-up TV and the final episode would not be broadcast for another week! No Dane-ooh-ment until next week! Talk about coitus interruptus. Boxed sex has spoilt us. We are going to have to wait a whole six days before we can resume this game of quoits.
It's enough to make one head for the Danish pastries.

Easter Day 2018

It's all about the chocolate. I'm sorry if that offends some. It's always been about the chocolate in our house. I go months without so much as a sniff of a Mars bar and then when Easter falls and chocolate in all its tantalising forms is brought into the house, I don't hold back. I throw myself with Bacchanalian frenzy at it.
This year Carrot cake truffles were the mere curtain raiser to a chocolate-fest that finally ground to a halt this afternoon when we had exhausted all supplies. So I ploughed into the understairs cupboard, only to return half an hour later, sweaty, but triumphant, brandishing a still-in-date packet of Jaffa cakes. Two packets, in fact: his and hers. No squabbling.
So I am sitting here like a bloated little pot-belly, ruing the excess.
We are not with family, unusually today. One half has buggered off to the Cotswolds, and the other half are laid up with nasty colds. So here we are this Easter day, suffering from a glut of chocolate and Sunday newspapers, but smiling at the answer almost eight year old Joseph wrote in his homework on Easter:
Question: "Why might Jesus's disciples have been surprised by Jesus washing their feet on Maundy Thursday?"
Answer: "It might have surprised them because you wash your hands not your feet when you eat."
This is to demonstrate that we're not all heathens.

And inches on my hips....

House White...

I like a good pun. Do you like a good pun? I like to think I can spot one coming at fifty yards. Would you like an old pun or a current pun?  Or a hot crossed pun as it's almost Easter. Annoying? Yes, I am.

For the past few days we have been in the process of having the outside of the house painted. Nothing radical. Brilliant white. Put on your shades, you'll need them. Every window seems to have a man outside it. No matter what floor you're on. I of course, have taken it in my stride, whilst providing a constant supply of tea, and of course, cover  for the residential naked man who leaps out of the shower and up the stairs, shouting, "Christ on a bike! Are they here already?"
Dearest  has been told the time they are arriving,but he will not be budged from his morning routine.
I suspect he just loves to live dangerously.  Hmm, latent exhibitionism? I think not.  But it has ever been thus. So no real change.

On Friday morning, I went into the downstairs bathroom only to come eyeball to eyeball with Andy wielding a brush, at an open window.
I stood in front of the toilet and said,
"Ah, no pees for the wicked."
Bemused look.
Once I'd explained it, it was no longer punny.
I gave up punning for the rest of the day.
Thankfully, he didn't give up painting. Everything was all white in the end.
I think I ought to take something for this.

House White? Make mine a large one...

Lights, Action and lost Lipstick...

I'm out of practice. Either that or twenty years or more on Eastenders have spoiled me. I have just done the longest and most arduous day in my filming history. Hot, dehydrated and on my feet for many consecutive hours, I was beginning to look my age. And I 'd forgotten my makeup bag.

So anxious had I been to remember the obvious things like continuity costume, shoes and hat, that I left the bag of life's necessities on the bathroom floor. I'd applied the first layer at 5.30am, sufficient for the morning, and thankfully the bacon butty did not wreak havoc with the lippy. Possibly because I ate it sans butty.
But post-lunch, the make-up girl absently tousled my hair.
"I'm wearing a hat," I told her.
"Good,"she said, a little unnecessarily, I thought.
When I looked in the mirror later, the old barnet was indeed looking very yesterday's mane, and I was looking progressively the worse for wear without any cosmetic enhancement.
Nobody commented. This is not in the slightest surprising. Our function is purely to fill a void in a room, to laugh on cue, disco dance to silent music, and occasionally to hide a lamp by moving just two inches to one's left.

Lost lippy was the last thing on my mind as I struggled to get through this long day's journey that had started at 5am and ended with a cup of tea at 9.45pm with Dearest. But how sweet the pleasure in telling him, as he has so often told me,
"I've had a bit of a day."

Cocktail, anyone?....

When sorrows come... well, they didn't come in battalions, but there were three this weekend. First of all, confirmation that Galvin's in Baker Street has actually closed down. A favourite unpretentious French restaurant of many years standing. We didn't see it coming. There are other Galvins but they are burdened with Michelin stars. We liked ours and now it is gone.  With not so much as an au revoir. Felt deeply sad. Then Dearest went to Daunt's to pick up the latest Philip Kerr he'd ordered.
"Did you know he died yesterday?" the assistant asked.
One of Dearest's favourite authors, felled, as his latest book comes out. Bernie Gunther and Dearest have shared many hours happily and grumpily growing old together. No more of this enduring fellowship. Shock and profound sadness.
Then, of course ball-tampering. Australian ignominy, and a bad day for cricket.

What could I do? Well, thank God I had a plan up my sleevie. I have resisted loudly whenever Dearest has expressed a desire to see the film Dunkirk. I've been persistently obstructive, actually. However, when one of our painters said he had a copy which he wouldn't mind lending us for the weekend, I accepted with alacrity.

So on Saturday evening. I produced the trump card. I have to say, that I had not undergone a sea-change. I really wasn't looking forward to watching it particularly. So I suggested I made us a pair of Negronis.
"Do you actually follow a recipe, Mum?" asked Son et Lumiere the next day.
Of course I don't. I read somewhere once that it contained Gin, Campari, and red Martini. I have got a very large measure and I mix them all up together with ice and a slice of orange.
"Mum, each shot is a double, you do know that?"
Really? Well, all I can say, is the first one slipped down a treat. It was so good that we immediately had another. Made Dunkirk go with a bit of a swing. Don't ask me about the detail. Just a little bit hazy about that.
Leaving alcohol alone for the rest of the week.

Wedding invitation.....

Posh wedding guest. That's me. Yessiree. Send me a text at 6.00pm for a 640am call the next day and I can rustle up the appropriate gear. Just like that. (Tommy Cooper without the fez.) That's because I am posh. I'm not really. I just never throw a hat away, and have inherited a few after my mother. I also kept the black and cream linen coat that DD wore for her graduation. Just in case. Black skinny jeans under which I could put several thermal layers, and black flatties because nobody but the uninitiated wears heels to day's filming, and a thirty year old black hat with veil and feather that I 'd bought for my father's funeral, and I was done. Amazing really, when you think of the agonising and expense of sorting out an outfit for a real wedding.

The cold. Always the cold. Fear of not finding the unit base, top of the list. Followed by the cold. It was going to be several degrees warmer. The next day there was blue sky and sunshine. And a biting wind that sliced you in two. Despite all this, it was a good day. An interesting crowd. A young and compassionate crew that realised that pretending it is blooming June in the middle of March is a tough call. A lot of flag-waving and cheering required, for this is a comedy. Not a subtle one at that. A great deal of "creative reaction" from the crowd required.

Love it. Just hoping that my own enthusiastic creative reaction falls the right side of gurning. I've been told to tone it down in the past. So mortifying.
Can't wait to carry on next week.

This'll do ....

The Girl from the North Country...

What were we expecting? I don't know. I went with an open mind. All I knew was that the show contained Bob Dylan songs. I could do Bob Dylan. In my youth. Not too much, even then. Dearest was keen and so was Beverley. It was our treat.
So we went with hope in our souls. And fortified by wine and solid Austrian food from Delaunay's. A little too fortified, in that we opted for a taxi, instead of a brisk walk, and ended up in a St Patrick's Day traffic jam, necessitating a power-pelt towards the closing doors of the theatre. Late. Bugger. Ushered into the bar (where no more liquid refreshment was required) to watch the opening of the play on screen.
"Shades of schnell-schnell," muttered Dearest darkly, recalling our late arrival at the Austrian opera.
"Don't worry," said the theatre waverer-in-of-late arrivals (says she, studiously avoiding the out-moded term of usherette). "You're not missing much in the first five minutes. It's just setting the scene in a guest-house."
Never were uttered more prophetic words.
This show has been festooned with Olivier awards (won after our booking had taken place) and enthused about generally. The singing was great. The songs virtually unrecognisable as Bob Dylan's, in that they had been given new arrangements. Fine with that. Call me old-fashioned, but I like a strong narrative. This had brief episodes strung together by musical interludes. It was a patchwork quilt of despair and sadness, with only tiny glimmers of hope.
For us, the only thing that truly lifted it was the depiction of Elizabeth Laine, the wife suffering from early dementia. Played by the extraordinary Scottish actress Shirley Henderson. A bravura performance and a terrific singing voice.
Thank the good Lord for the talent of Shirley Henderson and liquid fortification.
Frankly,  I couldn't wait to round off the evening with  a wallow of Leonard Cohen.

Snarking whilst snacking....

It would be presumptuous to ask if you missed me. So I''m not going to. Let me just say that Dearest has. It won't be said with flowers. Or him coming home early to surprise me. It shows in the way he left the dining room this morning. With jacket left on the back of the chair, discarded from last night, presumably. An empty coffee cup and a few remaining crumbs of hot cross buns which I will eat with impunity because my wife the dragon-slayer and general killjoy is away in Buckingham while I have to fend for myself, here alone.  A lone packet of fig rolls which have helped to plug the wife-sized gap in his life. The Times left, half-read. Left open at the page where he stopped half-reading it, because he was evidently beamed up by Scottie, leaving everything just as..

Oh, the joys of home-coming. It's as if I haven't been away at all. When I am absent, I remotely organise his supper which can only be microwaved with phone support. Oh, so patiently.  I hear stabbing sounds, as he attempts to pierce the seal on a Waitrose ready-meal.
"You don't have to kill the liver and bacon. It's already dead," I say, despite myself.
"Not a Charlie Big-Un exactly," he replies mournfully.
Well, I've studied the calorific content of Charlie Bingham and am very aware that Dearest if left unattended will buy for himself a meal for two, with the very intention of enjoying one man-size portion. So I've put paid to that. I tell you, I AM a killer of joy.

In the kitchen I found he'd bought a packet of crisps. But not any old crisps. No, these were exotic healthy crisps. Not a spud in sight. Crunchy French beans, sugar snap peas and black edamame beans.
95 calories per serving. It was not until I had scoffed the lot did I bother to see how many servings were in a packet. Ah, yes, 3.5 servings. Excellent. I have just eaten the calorific content of a small meal while having a snack. Thank God it's one of my five a day.
And thank God I ate them all before Dearest gets home.
You see how nobly I  throw myself on the altar of self-sacrifice, in order to keep the home-fires burning?


 

In case you didn't receive a card this Mothering Sunday...

Mother's Day in this country today. Might not be in yours. Every day is Mother's Day, mine would say, so that we weren't, as children, encouraged to subscribe to  the incontrovertible commercialism of this particular day in the calendar.
I always observed it, as I needed no excuse to buy my mother a bunch of flowers; my brother always heeded her advice, and didn't.
Today we had lunch with the Buckingham branch where Mother's Day was duly acknowledged, and I received a cheery text from my son.
I liked my card. So today I would like to wish anyone who is a mother and everyone who has one, a very gentle Mothering Sunday. Here's to good eggs everywhere.

Finding Your Feet or is it your Face?

I walked four miles today to get my vitals. Oh, you know, the monthly supply of blood pressure pills and assorted others, that keep my coat sleek and my tail wagging.  While on the journey, Son et Lumiere called. So we chatted as he walked to Marlins and I walked to the Chemist, because we are both extremely busy people and can only find time to speak to one another while in transit. Mmm. Familiar?
Anyway, I was doing a damn fine job of talking (not handsfree, because I am not that evolved) and walking up a hill when, suddenly, I exclaimed, as a double-decker bus went past, bearing a large poster of a film called, "Finding Your Feet".
"Are you alright, Mum?" said son-sounding-concerned.
Obviously fearing that I had been felled by aforementioned bus.
"Yes," I replied, "But have you seen that advert of "Finding Your Feet" with Celia Imrie, Joanna Lumley, and Imelda Staunton?"
He hadn't. As you may imagine, a title like that probably has about as much interest for him as reading a Bunion Blog. (Barbed, yes, don't deny it.)
"Well, do you think Celia Imrie looks a bit  like me? I keep on finding it a little disconcerting to see myself on the side of a bus."
"Oh, God," he said. Which is not the sort of thing you wish to hear your hand-reared doctor come out with.
"Do you think it's narcissism?" I asked. I am always quick to self-analyse. To prove that it couldn't possibly be the case in this particular instance.
"At least I'm not kidding myself that I look like Joanna Lumley who is way more glam."I added for reassurance, really.
Yes, he agreed, my narcissism was at least in the moderate category.
For the time being.  Oh Lordy, something else to worry about.

Celia Imrie third from left...not to be confused with yours truly

Network at the NT

A theatre trip mid-week is a bit of a bummer really. It starts with the painful extraction of husband from the office around 430. The vagaries of London traffic. And inevitably the question of food. Traffic was good and the walk from Regents Park to the South Bank, pleasantly brisk. We had half an hour before the start of the play, so time for coffee and...
We didn't fancy the carrot and hummus sandwiches on offer. So we did the play on an empty stomach.
I just want to say that while it all involved huge effort and temporary starvation, we were both agreed that Network was the finest piece of theatre we had seen since, well, since uncle fell off the bus.
We had wanted to see it because we both remembered enjoying the film, with Peter Finch.  Astoundingly, it was  directed way back  in 1976 by Sidney Lumet.
Brian Cranston in the lead, we 'd come across from a brief flirtation with Breaking Bad (which failed to enlist us in its huge fan club ).
He was superlative. A profoundly moving performance that remained with me for the rest of the night.
The play is fresh, contemporary and prescient. It speaks for our time and dynamically portrays our world of fake news and reality TV.
Wonderful set. It takes the audience into a television studio with live cameras projecting images on a huge screen. The noise, the hubbub, the countdown to being On Air, buzzing as the audience takes their seats. Costume racks to one side of the stage and a restaurant to the other where people are eating and drinking and watching the action. Real people. you know, ordinary punters like you and me.
I'd have given my eyeteeth to have been up there with the action. Dearest would have paid good money to have all his removed without anaesthetic, not to have been up there.
We're different that way. But as we finally feasted on beans on toast at eleven o'clock that evening, we both agreed that it had been an exceptional night out and hadn't we been lucky.

Brian Cranston gives a magnificent performance

Alessi Meets Whitefriars....

Have you noticed these days that we "curate" everything in our homes? It's not enough to whisk around with a duster. Plus a squirt of Pledge to let everyone know that the whiff of polish in the air is proof of domestic endeavour. Not enough to stick a couple of candlesticks on the mantlepiece and the present from Blackpool jug. No, no, no. You don't arrange your significant knick-knacks that you have acquired through gift, antique fair, or jumble sale over the years....You curate them. So that your motley bric-a-brac becomes an eclectic collection.

Well, stuff that. I've been re-arranging my vast and diverse miscellanea. There is nothing like a bit of redecorating upheaval for fresh evaluation. Because my experience is, that as soon as you dismantle a room with all its hitherto and barely-disguised crap, it becomes a mortal affront to re-stash it. Somehow in the process of removing everything, a small incipient desire for minimalism creeps in.
So this is why I have an almost perfect study and a very large box of schtuff in the kitchen. I am already not seeing it and find I can navigate my way round it with perfect ease. Dangerous.

Anyway, before I remove it,  I want to share a little display I curated earlier. (Listen to me... such a follower of the herd.) Son et Lumiere hasn't room for these Alessi Sundae bowls, would I store them? etc etc. You know the story. So I added them to my collection of glass. Just for fun. Then I will curate them into a box and put them at the back of the wardrobe.
I could be a curator when I grow up.

Getting layered up....

It might look as though it's Spring outside. The snow has disappeared. The daffodils are peeking. The temperature is 8 degrees. Positively balmy, in comparison with last week.
But talking of barmy, that's what I was, to accept my first job back as a supporting artist, or uncommon extra, on the regular soap that I worked on for twenty two years before my retirement. Barmy because it's an outside job, and we will be filming for the end of April. No hats, no winter coats, no scarves. Because it is only the BBC wardrobe department that thinks, in Britain, from April-August, we wallow in Mediterranean temperatures.
I am not sleep-walking into this. I know what I am taking on. I am two years older and one bunion less, than when I did this job last. I have prepared my wardrobe for tomorrow. At least three cashmere jumpers, one borrowed, because they are light and layerable. It is my return. I do not wish to look like Michelin woman. I would rather freeze. No, that is not true. I don't care deeply about what I look like. Vanity versus warmth? Warmth will win.
So I have invested in an electric hot water bottle. It's for the lower back and you wear it strapped around the waist. Does this sound the remotest bit familiar? Ah, yes, but this one is heated up from a plug point. I put it on, for a trial-run at the weekend when Son et Lumiere was visiting.
"It looks fine, Mum, really. No-one is going to notice... No, really..."
Well, that additional really, did it. Upstairs to a full-length mirror to survey the effect. What did I say about vanity?
I am not going to appear on national television with a bum the size of Albuquerque.
Damnit. I won't. I will simply do an awful lot of running on the spot. Which is good for me.
And I will carry my electric hot water bottle in my shopping bag.
As I swing by, doing my invisible shopping. And having soundless conversations.
Here I go again.

Baby, it's cold outside....

But then you knew that. I am not complaining about the weather. So far so good. Many have it a great deal worse than us softies in the South East. If anything, I am perspiring. Sweating pints actually. I have the heating on full and I have spent the past two days restoring order. The study painted and shipshape. Oh yes, so ship-shape that the rest of the house is looking distinctly shit-shape. Pardon my French. But you know what I mean.
In the evenings, when all are safely gathered in, we have a new weapon in our arsenal against the raging aches and pains which are exacerbated by this weather. Its a giant Willy-warmer.
"I do wish you wouldn't keep referring it to it like that, Mum," says D.D. who gave her father it for Christmas.
It is, in fact, a large elongated hot water bottle that comes with its own fleecy pouch and a soft strap which means you sling it over your shoulder and position it where you need heat most. Lower back region, a favourite, in case you're wondering, but too well-bred to ask.
I have to say that Dearest looked a bit bemused when he unwrapped it at Christmas, but it has been a wonderful acquisition .
It's called a YuYu. You won't find it in the willy-warming section of Amazon. Did you know they still made them? I thought that they had been an eighties marketing joke. Extraordinary that they are still pedalling them. People evidently find them funny. According to the reviews (read,whilst clearing up my house) one old chap thought it was a phone cover!  That's what happens when you go for cheap laughs.
Something I almost never do.

Two feet of snow 

Wales lost but Scotland roared to victory....

I have a clear desk. No, not metaphorically speaking. This is Saturday night, after all. We don't do metaphors on a weekend.
My desk is clear of all the accumulated post-Christmas crap. It's the first thing you would have seen if you'd looked into my study. A pile of unfiled paper work and a miscellany of musical sheets, abandoned after music lessons. I could kid myself that it indicated a life well-lived, but in all honesty, it is a true reflection of the haphazard attitude I have, to order of any kind.  I like order but find it hard to achieve.
Unless, that is, I get a phone call from our decorator who says that he finds himself unexpectedly available next week. Do I have any bijou projects he might be able to help with? My words not his. Our painter is not pretentious, whereas I have this creeping tendency after two glasses of red on a Saturday night. Did I mention it was Saturday night?
Yes, well. I obviously had to clear the study. The obviously bit, lies in the I not the study. As I don't expect you to know that the study is on our to-do list, and is quite way down, actually. Dearest, at the first whiff of domestic upheaval, headed for the office. Which, in fairness, he might well have done, anyway.
Some hours elapse. I put on the Welsh-Irish rugby match and start removing all the flotsam and jetsam to a different level. Or behind the sofa. Whichever is nearer. I take all the drinking vessels to a safe place upstairs. I clear all the boxes of CDs from under the chest to stack them in the other room. The pictures are off the walls. The lamps removed. We are talking empty. Echo-y. Clinically tidy. Un-me.

I put on the England v Scotland rugby match and put it on hold for Dearest's return. He comes home an hour later, just in time for the delayed start of the match. He walks into the study. I am waiting for the roll-me-over in-the-clover reaction..
"Jeez!" he says.
Good. Big reaction, I allow myself to smile.
"Where the bloody hell are the wine glasses?"

I cheered all the way through the match. For Scotland. Don't mess with a Celt.

Congrats to Ireland, as I drown my sorrows...

Copper, a fine substitute for carbs...

A lack of carbs today has cleared my mind of clutter. That, and  merest hint of spring in the air has put a bounce in my gait and an insane desire to clear out a few drawers and cupboards. I started in the under sink cupboard and unearthed an old copper plate. It had been neglected, resembling some ancient relic that you might easily find in abundance in Britannia.
Pre-treatment it looked like this:


What a testimony to my housekeeping. I was shamed into getting out the Brasso. This was no Roman bounty. It is a plate made by Thomas Powell Jones, my step Grandfather, who was the Metalwork teacher at Llanelli Boys Grammar school in the 1950s and 60s. He would have used this a demonstration plate to show the boys what to do. Now it looks like this:


Very Arts and Craft, don't you think? And now it is back on display, where it should have been.
I should give up carbs more often. Except, you do get bloody hungry.

Twinkle twinkle Little Pan...

Don't you just love things with green in the title? Green paint, green fuel, green travel, green tea. No, take off green tea. Can't do green tea. Apart from green tea then, the word green gives the old girl  a rosy glow, doing her bit for the environment.

Well, I had one of those moments today. I walked into town and back. Very green. (3.7 miles, in case your'e wondering). Though if you read a report that appeared in The Lancet recently you will know that you are putting your lungs and other critically attached organs at risk, by walking in urban areas where there is traffic congestion. Well, I get round this by not breathing. I take a big lungful as I leave the house and rely on wind to transport me. A prevailing easterly, I mean, in case there's any doubt.

No, I take my chances with the particulates that guff out into the atmosphere as I stride purposefully and speedily to reach my destination. And pant up hills and down dales, hoping that I am contributing to a greener future, whilst keeping all my moving parts oiled and well, moving.
So imagine that I couldn't get any higher in my green-induced euphoria, when I went into John Lewis in search of a non-stick frying pan. Bear with. This is interesting.

What did I stumble across but The Original Green Pan? And it had so much information on the front label that I became dizzy with excitement. Remember I told you last week about my frying pan, and learning all about PFAS. Well, not only does this not have PFAS, but it also doesn't have any PFOAs either (which is probably a good thing?). Nor does it have any lead or cadmium which is obviously nice to know, but frankly I wasn't expecting to have to worry about either.

Now for more excitement. The pan is called Evershine which keeps the outside of it looking good for years to come (actually, not too bothered about that). It is also called Infinity because it is extremely durable. A pan with two names? Little wonder it cost sixty quid. Edited to fifty quid when reporting back to HQ. ("How much?" incredulous response to edited version.)  But listen to this.. it is ceramic non-stick, enhanced with diamonds!
We all know that diamonds last forevah, forevah.
After a couple of years of rigorous testing in my busy kitchen (ha!) we will know whether or not this marketing ruse is a mere flash in the pan.

Man Hunt:the Unabomber

Oh, what an absolute stonker! My brother recommended it, but we watched Mindhunter by mistake. I thoroughly enjoyed it, but not for the reason that it sent Dearest off to sleep within ten minutes every time. He enjoyed the openings of every episode, and was happy to be updated by me before the next. Noble creature. (Him not me.) But you will gather from that, as interesting and well-crafted as it surely was, it was not enough to cut through the end of day knackerdom of a long day's journey into night that my watching co-pilot experiences on an almost daily basis.

No, we have spent the past week, watching, totally awake, the series of Man Hunt: the Unabomber. It is terrific. Based on the true story of Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber that terrorised America for twenty years, it details the way in which profiler, James Fitzgerald, brought him down. It is fascinating on many levels. But not least of all, disturbing, when you listen to the manifesto of the Harvard-educated Unabomber. His concerns about artificial intelligence taking over from humans are extraordinarily prescient. Issues of insanity and criminality are raised and part way answered. It questions the morality of putting vulnerable undergraduates through mind-bending experiments to further research into what it takes to break down spies under interrogation.

So many questions. So much food for thought. And tautly delivered.
A Michelin star for quality of food. And five stars for delivery.

Look out for this on Netflix

Made by Bob

Cirencester, last weekend, took us to the Vanessa Arbuthnot's, retail heaven, to purchase more fabric for blinds. We also discovered a gorgeous tile shop called Cotswold Tiles which sells the most beautiful tiles I've seen, quite possibly ever. They are made by the Winchester Tile Company down in Exeter. Hand-made and hand-glazed.


In our house, we have one place that has remained untiled. It is the area behind behind the range. We refurbished the kitchen six years ago, but left the question of a splash-back open. Committing to tiles is not like choosing a paint colour, or even a wall paper. It has to be an unwavering choice. These will be the tiles that will remain in place until we shuffle off our mortal coil. So no pressure then, to get it right. Hence the delay. Like all these things, the longer you leave it, the less it seems like an omission.


We are now waiting for more samples but I am totally in love with these tiles. The charming chap at Cotswold tiles, Kevin, told us that if we fancied a coffee we could also see the tiles in situ in a place close by, called Made by Bob. We were ready for a light lunch and set off to do some tile-sleuthing.



Well, we were in for a treat. What a delightful informal restaurant, with its own deli. The tiles looked great. The decor sharp and appealing. The food beautifully presented. Beetroot and goats cheese salad for her and tomato and something soup for him. The deli contained bottles of wine with the Made by Bob label. A trick was missed there. Surely they should have read Passed by Bob? But then it really wasn't that sort of joint. This was classy and friendly. Our new best friend, Kevin told us that Bob Parkinson, previously a chef from Bibendum in London, was the local mover and shaker.  Kevin also told us that his real name wan't Bob at all.
Not a lot of people know this.  Which strangely makes us love the name even more.
So if you fancy a lunch on the tiles (no nights, as it closes at 5pm) in Cirencester, ask Bob. Or Kevin.