Breakfast pancakes.
Flowery gifts.
A delicious late lunch with perfectly chilled Prosecco, courtesy of the kitchen pixies who also washed up and tidied the kitchen afterwards.
Lounging with the papers, the latest novel and a box of chocolate gingers.
As my dad used to say, peel me another grape.
The weather at the weekend was just how I like it, sunny but still bitterly cold, perfect for treating a little white car to a much needed wash and polish. There was also a solitary afternoon drive to one of the many abbeys in these parts, with Barton Hollow at full volume on the CD player, and shopping for the dress with the bride to be (which turned out to be easier than anticipated). We've had a family dinner in a North Yorks country pub where the wait was far too long for what turned out to be just so so food, not half as tasty as the cauliflower cheese we had for lunch. Two cats and a dog have had their annual examinations and jabs (one's too fat, one doesn't clean his nose properly and the other needs a special diet) and our bank account has been subsequently depleted. Not much is happening in the garden (I didn't get round to planting any of the bulbs I'd bought) though the camellia buds are almost ready to burst into flower and the Corsican hellebore is brightening a corner. Too many pancakes have been flipped and eaten with too much maple syrup. Biscuits, chocolate and cake will not be consumed until Easter Sunday.
It seems to have taken no time at all for a shy little boy, lacking in self confidence,
to turn into a right clever clogs!
After being presented with the piece of paper that confirms he
we celebrated with pizzas all round.
***********
Two years ago on this day I had radical surgery following a diagnosis of a gynaecological malignant melanoma.
Two years.
Whilst that may be a milestone of sorts, there's no room for complacency as this is a cancer that has a nasty habit of coming back, anywhere, and, for that reason, I still have at least 3 monthly checks at the hospital.
In some ways, this "after" part is even harder, with every twinge and ache, every lump and bump, anything which might constitute "a change" becoming significant.
It's been described by others as being akin to driving whilst continuously looking in the rear view mirror.
I know what they mean.
But I'm trying really hard to live with the fear, to eat well, to walk more, to enjoy each day as it comes.
Following his impressive undergraduate performance, the Boy here is hoping to enrol on a Master's course next year. This, unsurprisingly, will cost rather a lot of money.
He currently has a part time job working in my cousin's cafe but the wages are low and don't allow for much in the way of saving, despite living at home which does cut costs somewhat.
The search for full time work is ongoing but so far has only reinforced the view that there are very few opportunities here, an area which for many years has witnessed decline and high rates of unemployment.
However, an advert for several jobs which sounded promising (and maybe even a little bit exciting) was spotted recently.
One of the posts involved managerial responsibilities with a higher rate (£10 per hour) of pay but required particular personal characteristics which the Boy simply doesn't have.
He considered applying for one of the other lower paid (£6 per hour) jobs but finally decided not to because:
Whilst I do think he should get his albeit very limited CV out there, I had to agree.
Somehow, I just couldn't visualise him as one of Santa's Elves.
Today is Aunty M's birthday and this is her cake. It's a basic Victoria chocolate sponge with a ganache frosting, topped off with sugar flowers and a sprinkling of glitter.
Aunty is my (late) mother's sister, with a twenty year gap (and seven other siblings) between them. She's the unmarried one, the one who remained at home with my gran, the one who taught me to knit and embroider, the one who always made the picnics on family day trips, the one who always bought unusual birthday and Christmas presents, the one who worked in my parents' shop two nights every week to give them some free time, the one who took me to "the pictures" on Friday nights, the one I stayed with after my gran died, the one I was, and still am, very close to.
Aunty was an extremely skilful dressmaker (she did this for a living for many years) and made the most beautiful clothes without patterns. This came in very handy when I was in my teens and all of the latest fashions were only available in London and the other big cities. We'd spot an outfit on television or I'd show her what I wanted in a magazine (usually Petticoat), I'd then choose the fabric and she'd produce it very quickly. She made me skirts, dresses, jackets, coats (one being a spectacular long velvet number). I was often asked where I'd bought whatever it was I was wearing.
She still has her cabinet style sewing machine, which her parents and brothers and sisters clubbed together to buy for her 21st birthday, which was always stuffed full of the most gorgeous fabrics, buttons, zips and reels of cotton, and on which she created those fab outfits. Sadly, it hasn't been used for years and is now just a piece of furniture used to display family photographs.
Aunty is now the one I share memories of my original family and childhood with and we often indulge in those "Do you remember.....?" conversations when I visit each week. Here's to lots more reminiscing, birthdays and cake.
Exactly.
We helped the Boy celebrate his birthday (a little early, it's actually on Tuesday but the Girlie and her Betrothed were here for the weekend). It started with a meal at one of our favourite vegetarian restaurants last night. I forgot to take my camera so no pictures. For starters we shared lemony hummus, mushroom, cashew and basil pate and warm Moroccan mash, all with homemade bread. Then I had the restaurant's own butternut squash and sunblush tomato sausages (which had been trialled recently at Glastonbury) served with mash, buttered cabbage and a white wine liquor, followed by a deliciously sticky marmalade Bakewell tart and ice cream.
Today the candles and sparklers were lit and we had the cake.
I used Nigella's buttermilk birthday cake recipe (which I strongly recommend for flavour and moistness) and lemon curd buttercream frosting (coloured a subtle blue). Of course, there was a liberal sprinkling of glitter which probably wasn't to the soon-to-be Birthday Boy's taste but hey, what's a birthday cake without the sparkly stuff? I also added some giant silver balls which, I must say, took some crunching. Probably no bad thing, then, that I have a dental check-up tomorrow.
1. The Boy finished his three years at university (Already? Really?) with a bit of a flourish, achieving a First in English.
(from http://ragetoons.com)
2. The Gorgeous Girlie received a proposal of marriage (Is she old enough?) and said yes.
3. The Boo (What's he planning?) got his Pet Passport.
Now all he needs is a photograph to go inside.
Smile, Boo.
Sorted.
When I was born my mother had already decided I was going to be called Elaine, for no reason other than she liked the name. She learned I was Elizabeth four days later when my dad presented her with my birth certificate after an unaccompanied visit to the Registry Office.
He told me years later that he always regretted not adding my mother's name (Jane) as a middle one for me. Whilst I've always quite liked the name Elizabeth, my original surname was similarly lengthy with 10 letters and 3 syllables, and saying my name when I was younger always seemed a bit of a gobful. I certainly didn't miss a middle name.
Although my mother's name was Jane, most people (but not my dad) called her Jennie. My dad was James Henry but, originally as a mark of respect for an uncle who was killed in the war shortly after he (my dad, that is) was born, he was Harry to everyone thereafter. Apart from the bloke in the garage where he bought all his cars and had them serviced who for some reason always called him Les. My dad never corrected him. He used to say he would answer to anything as long as it wasn't a swear word.
My name was shortened to Liz when I was at grammar school although my teachers never referred to me as anything other than Elizabeth. In the second year there we went through a phase in my group of friends of calling each other by our reverse names. (Did anyone else do the same or were we just daft?) This worked better for some, like my friend Irene who thus became, and remained, Eneri. Whenever she came to our house, though, my parents insisted on calling her Henry. Needless to say my own Htebazile didn't last long and I don't remember my mum and dad ever going along with it.
I morphed into Lizzy when I went to the local college of further education to do my A levels. It seemed to fit the image at the time and is the name the mister (whose own first name was his mother's maiden name) got to know me as. I was always Lizzy to my brother and I have friends from those days who still call me that. Now, I mostly switch between Liz and Elizabeth, answering to either. Occasionally, I decide which one I'm going to be. Like the other day when we had to introduce ourselves at an exam board. I just said "Today, I'm Elizabeth". Keeps people on their toes.
Choosing a name for our Girlie was no easy matter, even with the book, but we agreed on the Russian spelling of an ancient Greek name. When number two child was about to be born, I loved and championed the name Araminta but was overruled. It turned out to be no bad thing as baby turned out to be of the blue variety. We decided to give him a moniker with rather more festive connections.
If I had to choose a name for myself I'm not sure which one I'd pick.
I'd probably stick with the one I've got.
What about you? Given the choice, would you switch or stick?
