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.

Out of the Frying Pan....

Sorry. You caught me with my mouth full. Full of perfluoroalkyl substances. If that's not a mouthful, then I don't know what is. I'd like to reassure you, I'm not about to confess to being a PFASs junkie.  Though in fairness, I am not entirely sure I can reassure myself, that I haven't got high levels of this chemical coursing around my bloodstream. (Giving me psychedelic delusions that I am still writing a Bunion blog, with not a bunion in sight.)

Yesterday, I read that people with higher levels of PFASs were more likely to put weight back on after dieting. You find a preponderance of this chemical in non-stick frying pans apparently. Which is funny, but not really, because I was on the point of replacing our existing one. Because, Lord love a duck, I have eaten the bloody lining off the last one. Its non-stick has disappeared down my gullet, so that when you turn off that light, the luminescent cucumber in the corner is moi.

This stuff messes with your health in all the usual ways. Cancer, immune dysfunction, high cholesterol. All the usual suspects. So was I worried about the bit which focuses on the weight gain after dieting? Not at all. Because to achieve and maintain the  ideal weight I will have to watch my diet forever. If a new non-stick pan helps me keep the additional fat content down, and frying becomes part of a moderate approach to a healthy well-balanced diet (yawn), I will be off to Lakeland tomorrow.

Then I will be able to make the pancakes I forgot to make on Tuesday. Alright, alright, it's better than frying a sausage (7 syns a pop), and sausages are processed food.
Just don't get me started on that...

These are free from BPA and PFOA as well.....what the heck are those???

Saint Valentine's messenger..

Yes indeed, with his little bow and arrer and scantily clad loins. Ah, I see. Yours doesn't like to dress up?
Come on, surely you know us well enough by now, to realise that dressing up is simply not on the agenda in this house. Any more than Valentine's Day is given any serious attention. The only mention prior to the day, was when I was told Waitrose was doing a meal deal for a tenner for Valentine's Day. This is Dearest's abortive attempt to get a pudding out of me other than Muller Light Yoghurt.
"That won't affect us," I said firmly, with jolly-hockey-mistress tone, "As we don't celebrate Valentine's day. "
This morning, however, with not a card in sight from either party, I relented. I put out his cereal, thus:


And I put out his socks.... thus:
I think that has just about got the day covered.

Free Food February.... à la Slimming World

It's Free Food February! Hooray! No, it's nothing laudable like distributing food to the homeless. Now I've had that thought, I'm sitting here feeling uncomfortable with my conscience pricked. However, you didn't tune in for all that noble stuff, did you? Own up. You wanted my Falafel recipe, nest-ce pas?
Let me explain that this FF Feb is a "new" catchphrase from Slimming World who are selling the principle that you can fill up on food that is wholesome, nutritious and lower in calories than that doughnut you were just about to put in your mouth. We have a buffet once a month in our class where you bring a dish to share.
My intention was to give the falafel a go. So I prepared them over night with a view to baking them before I left in the morning. A two o'clock in the morning crisis saw me accompany Dearest to the office to protect him from marauders. There weren't any. But I proved my mettle as a help-mate and bruiser. Naturally, the next morning, feeling less than lovely, and pressed for time, I had to resort to slinging some coffee granules in quark and calling it Coffee Whip.
I ended up my making the falafel some time later. They were pleasantly spicy and quite filling. I think I might make them again. But I'll wait until I'm going to a fancy-dress party. Because, entrenous, they will enable me to go as a Wind Turbine.

 

Two Queens - one in power.......

What a muckle about Markle! (Lovely word, not used much in this neck of the woods. Mainly Scotland, to mean a whole load of). A bonnie lass to be sure (further slipping, for no conscious reason, into the Scottish vernacular) and let's face it, supremely well-trained to be taking on the role of princess/duchess on the celebrity stage of royalty. No shrinking violet-chomping nursery assistant, emerging shyly from obscurity. On the contrary, this Meghan, a successful actor, is well-used to creating her own limelight. And has her own voice. Independent means. Yes, no mere puppet. Good. Good for her and good for Harry. I wish them all the very best.
But do let them get on with it. Even The Times which one would like to believe was above that sort of thing, produces front page pictures of the happy couple on their hand-shaking pre-nuptial tour of the British isles. And has started on the insidious journey of itemising every handbag, pair of shoes, outfit Ms Markle has worn. I was whipped up into a frenzy by hearing she buys her knickers in Marks and Spencer. So do I, Meghan, so do I!  I don't mean to sound world-weary, but we've seen it happen before. The manufacture of a princess into an icon. And it didn't end well.

It didn't end too well for Mary Stuart either. We had the pleasure of seeing Mary Stuart  at the Duke of York theatre on Saturday night. The play written in 1880 by Freidrich Schiller, has been adapted and staged by the  innovative young director Robert Icke. Sheer delight. Lia Williams and Juliet Stevenson play Mary and Elizabeth. They toss a coin each night on stage to determine who will play which role. Fresh charge of electricity every time, I'd imagine. So we saw Lia Williams as Elizabeth. I have to confess that she is my absolute favourite. On television and on stage.
The play is wordy, I grant you, but riveting. The audience quietly listened without a whoop or hurrah. Thank the good Lord. A history play where both queens plot and counter-plot, engage in deceit and lies.  A time when a queen had the power to remove the head of another.

On a simpler and more mundane level, I hope that the British public do not lose theirs over Meghan Markle.

It's all in the execution...

Nibbling at my heart....

"Morning has broken
Like the first morning,
Blackbird has spoken
Like the First bird....."
Amazing how an old atheist like me, can break out into a hymn at the first sign of active birdlife in the garden, since we rolled out an enticing menu of heart-shaped suet and pendulous peanuts. Yes, spotted two robins this morning, pecking away at the soil. A little hors d'oeuvres before the main course, obviously. And a blue tit pecking away at the pink heart. Which, I have to say is looking a little battered and showing many signs of invisible bird-traffic.
This also puts me in mind of a favourite childhood hymn,
"Batter my heart
Three personned God,"
which always made me think of a heart deep-fried in batter.
And we weren't even a family that did offal. Not to that degree, anyway. But remind me, on the subject of offal, to tell you about the falafel I made this week. Unless you too have been referring to them as falla-fell. No? You knew how to pronounce them?
My readers are such hipsters...