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...