love those cupcakes

A night out

Last Thursday night had us driving through the rain to the Theatre Royal in Newcastle to see Derren Brown's latest offering.  It's not the kind of performance I usually opt for but the Boy had been given tickets as a Christmas present and invited us along.

It's hard to write about in any detail as the man himself asked the audience not to give away the content when blogging or reviewing or tweeting so as not to spoil it for people who have yet to see it.  If you've watched his television shows then you'll know the kind of stuff he does - suggestion, prediction, illusion, mind reading.  It was all there, with lots of laughs, camera close-ups, plenty of "how on earth did he do that" moments, audience participation and a rather creepy prop in the second half.  Derren Brown has been described as the "consummate showman".  He is.  But he's also very likeable.

We arrived home after midnight and to top off a really enjoyable evening I managed to slip on our (not so long ago re-surfaced, treacherous when wet) drive and ended up flat on my back.  A trip to A&E a few hours later confirmed a bad ankle sprain. 

 

So here I am on the sofa, following instructions to rest, elevate and apply ice packs whilst hoping for a speedy return to mobility.

Recovering

Thanks so much for your well wishes.   Still not firing on all cylinders (that was some bug the Boy brought home), I've continued to be housebound apart from a (makeup free because of the eye infection, quelle horreur) dash to the shop followed by a quick visit to check on Aunty M. at the weekend  

Of course, this means I've had no excuses for putting off the consultancy work I committed myself to and I think it's fair to say some progress has been made.   The laptop breaking down the other day and being carted off to laptop hospital might have been reason enough for doing nothing but, no,  I have a back-up machine so have been able to plod valiantly on. 

At other times I've been watching this, admiring the flowers on the only bulb I planted last year

 

and enjoying my first (free) snack box from here.

Can it get any more exciting?

Below par

For the last seven days I've been laid up with the worst cold/flu/bug I can remember having.  The Boy brought it home, the mister was next to succumb and then it was my turn.  

It started with a pounding head (which has continued every day since and which the Nurofen has consistently failed to reach), a load of iron bars stuck in my throat (or so it felt) and the sound of the sea constantly in my shell-like. 

The iron bars have since departed (more or less), leaving me with a late night/early morning cough.  Then yesterday I woke up with one eye swollen and stuck fast and the bloodshot other hinting that it might follow.  (It did.  This morning.)

I've wallowed in hot, deep baths for hours on end, because that's the only place I feel comfortable and who knows, I might actually manage to sweat the bugger out.  I've rested (in truth, hardly moved from the horizontal), self medicated and tried to keep taking in fluids (which isn't easy when your throat is full of iron bars but I must have taken in more than enough as evidenced by the overflow from my eyes and nose). 

I did venture out on Saturday to celebrate the Girlie's birthday with dinner here (of course I couldn't taste a thing and felt full pretty quickly) and threw some cakes together for her to take back to Manchester on Sunday. (Maybe I should have worn gloves and a mask during the making of them.)

 

Unbeknown to everyone, the Boy quietly cracked on with making some Jammy Dodgers, just in case I wasn't up to baking.

I think he did a pretty good job and the Girlie got an extra present.

 

Into January

And so far, so.......samey.  Plus, I haven't made any of my usual lose weight/read more/Google less New Year's resolutions though I'm aiming to make a few changes in the year ahead.  

One thing I learned in the lead up to the festivities is that the housework doesn't do itself (nor does anyone else do it, nor can you continue to ignore it after a point) and leaving it all for one mahoosive clean-up (alongside all of the shopping and present wrapping and cooking and baking) is one sure way to give you back ache and put you off your Christmas dinner. 

So I'm trying to do a bit each day.  Thus far it's working (and I find I rather like admiring the results of the vacuuming and duster flicking) though I'm very aware we're only five days in and my enthusiasm does have a tendency to wane rather too quickly (as evidenced by the numerous reminders around the house of many an unfinished project). 

Another, slightly more challenging, change I want to make this year is letting go - of stuff (of which there is still far too much  here), of past decisions, actions and conversations I can do nothing about.  You have no idea how much I replay in my head (even from years and years ago), how much I analyse, how much I think I could have done or said differently.  Bonkers, I know.  And I'm not at all sure how I'm going to achieve this change.  One of my friends thinks I should try hypnosis ("look into my eyes, look into my eyes, the eyes, the eyes, not around the eyes, don't look around my eyes, look into my eyes, you're under").  I think not. 

We went for lunch at the art gallery in town today, only to find the cafe has changed ownership.  The new menu doesn't impress at all (today's special was corned beef pie) and the quality of what we ended up with (soup, lukewarm at that) was very poor.  We had to eat chocolate tree decorations (yes, really) once we were home to get rid of the after taste. 

At least the sun was shining on the drive there and I managed to get the first snap this year of my favourite local landmark.

 

A celebration and a milestone

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.

This and that. Mostly that.*

We popped down the road to Saltburn by the Sea the other day for lunch.

Welsh rarebit (predictably) for me,

followed by a rather generous crème brûlée.  This was the day after lunch here and a couple of days after a visit to Betty's for a strawberry cream tea.

By the way, both of those scones, which came with a pot of strawberries,  were mine.  Himself had his own.

As if all of that wasn't enough, I somehow felt the need to produce a batch of berry muffins using strawberries and blueberries.  (*See?  I told you this post was mostly about That!).

 Work in the garden hasn't started yet (that's happening next week, weather permitting) but the pond has been cleaned which I'm sure was appreciated by the four surviving fish (ghost koi and orfe).

These are much bigger than they look in the picture - the ghost koi just visible on the left is at least a foot long - and especially when compared with the tiddly new arrivals which were introduced to their new home yesterday and haven't been seen since.  Hopefully the big boys didn't think lunch had been served!

As for leaving work, that turned out to be a bit of a damp squib.  Given the time of year, the campus was very quiet and I was the only one in the office so it was just a case of collecting those last bits and pieces, removing my name from the door and remembering to take a photograph on my way to the car park. 

Seems I haven't quite retired, though, as I've been approached by a couple of organisations to do a bit of consultancy work which will probably keep me busy until (and hopefully pay for!) Christmas. 

I was intending to start listing the two boxes of work related books on Amazon but maybe I'd better hang on to them.  At least until Christmas.

Happiness is

Boo:  A new ball, found in the park when out on this morning's walk and brought home to be chewed at leisure.

Me:  Eleven bags of Confidential Waste, locked in my office at work and awaiting collection after a mammoth sorting out.  In readiness, of course, for next week's (gulp) departure.

 

What's in a name?

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?

The sweet taste of opportunity (with lots of words, no pictures)

work (wʉrk)

Noun  

1. Employment at a job or in a position.  

2. Occupation, profession, business, trade, craft, etc.

 

Since leaving university the first time, I've always worked.  Full time, part time, on a sessional basis, day time, out of hours, as a practitioner, as a manager and senior manager, and currently as an academic. Most jobs I've loved, that never knowing what the work day would bring, that drive to try to make a difference. The pay cheques have always been most welcome, too.

Of course my employment path hasn't all been rosy and there have been the inevitable blips along the way, but then, at the end of 2009, came that massive bolt out of the blue.  A cancer diagnosis.  A rare, gynaecological cancer.  Malignant melanoma of the vulva.  (No, I didn't know you could get it there, neither did the GPs at my practice and, if you're wondering, it isn't sun related).

I had the radical surgery and went back to work after 5 months' sick leave. There are regular check-ups and, while there's no room for complacency, I can tentatively say (touching wood and all that) eighteen months on, so far, so good.  Or as my dentist wryly put it "You're still here, you're still breathing, how much better does it get?".  But life, and my attitude to living it, hasn't been the same since.

So, when moving on from a job I've been dissatisfied, frustrated and increasingly unhappy with became a distinct possibility (and it hasn't been about feeling like a square peg in a round hole, it's that certainty that I'm not even a peg!), I threw my hat into the ring, crossed my fingers and awaited the decision. 

The letter arrived eventually and the result is that, in a couple of months' time, I'm leaving work.

For ever.

 

retirement (riˈtīrmənt)

Noun

1. The action or fact of leaving one's job and ceasing to work.

2. The period of one's life after leaving one's job and ceasing to work.

 

Then, whenever anyone asks "What do you do?", I'll be able to reply.......

"Whatever I want".

 

Thank Crunchie it's Friday

It's been a busyish week with a work related trip to Liverpool and having stitches removed after a bit of a nose job, which wasn't for cosmetic reasons, I hasten to add, but has caused the Husband to remark "Ooh, now you've got a bump and a dip".  Charming.  So the opportunity to work at home today was most welcome, not least because I could fit in a spot of bread baking and soup making.

Meanwhile, Someone Else was clearly becoming too attached to his plant pots.

At least the TV remote control is getting a bit of a rest.