love those cupcakes

There and back

We were in London most of last week.  No special reason, just a short break doing touristy stuff with the Boy.  We travelled by rail, rented a lovely apartment in a narrow little street in Spitalfields, hopped on and off underground trains and, mindful of the mister's still impaired mobility and differing interests, fitted in:

• an hour or two in the company of some celebrity vehicles
• a night at the theatre (yes, a different production to the one we had tickets for but a cast change and temporary closure meant some last minute rearranging)
• lots of coffee and cake breaks
• an evening meander along Brick Lane and being hassled every couple of steps by restaurant touts which had the opposite effect to the one aimed for  
• half a day browsing, tasting and spending at the market
• a linger by the river
• a moment to reflect alongside the poppies
• a visit to the Imperial War Museum and remembering that a much missed dear friend used to attend the school opposite
• about 5 minutes in Camden which was long enough, thank you very much 
• a ride up the city's (and apparently western Europe's) tallest building and a glass or two of champagne at the top
• a walk across a bridge and some landmark spotting

Now we're back home and have mostly caught up.  Animals have been collected from their respective holiday homes, cases have been emptied, clothes washed, ironed and put away, the garden has been tidied, a couple of recorded TV programmes have been watched and I'm sitting here asking myself:

• why, when it's so easy to jump on an East Coast train, don't we visit the capital more frequently?
• how come we brought back so much stuff - fruit, veg, bread, cereals (it isn't granola, it isn't muesli, it's granuesli), chocolate, cakes, coconut in various forms, cheese, oils, spices, Turkish delight - to eat?
• what the hell is going on with Lady Mary from Downton's accent?  

Beside the seaside

I've been visiting Saltburn-by-the-Sea all my life.  It's a town on the coast just down the road from here, easily reached by car, bus or train so an ideal destination for day trips.  When I was in my teens, my parents bought a caravan there so that me and my friends had somewhere to hang out at weekends and holidays, and stays became longer. I remember four girls pretending to be French, reading poetry aloud till daybreak, beach parties, lost caravan keys and my poor dad being hauled before some complaints committee as a result.  Happy days.

Last weekend, when the Girlie and her mister were home, we decided to spend the afternoon in Saltburn and caught the tail end of the monthly market, managing to buy garlic, shortbread (rhubarb and custard and ginger flavours) and a scented geranium before the stallholders packed up.  There's a very good charity shop across the road from the deli we lunched in.  I resisted a box of sewing patterns from the 80s (think lots of padded shouldered and headband wearing brides) but a couple of books might have been purchased.  We rode the Victorian tramway down to the beach, passing the yarnbombers' somewhat droopy knitted poppy wreath and the ice cream van. The donkeys (members of an award winning team, no less) were coming to the end of their shift and a little dog looked hopeful of his owners dropping a chip or two. Back home, another dog wondered why he'd been left behind.

 

Carry On Blogging

Seems I've been doing it for 7 years.  Blogging, that is.  

In that time, love those cupcakes has chugged along and been pretty much low maintenance.  I've stuck with Typepad since the beginning, paying the minimal fees, playing about with their templates every now and then as the mood takes.

I don't plan posts.  I don't have a stack of drafts sitting waiting for me to hit 'publish now'.  I don't have a posting schedule.  (These days I don't have any schedule.)  I post whenever I want about whatever I want.

This blog doesn't have a particular theme (clearly).  It isn't my job nor do I view it as a route to new doors potentially opening.  love those cupcakes isn't my take on the world.  I avoid controversial topics. I don't post about deep subject matter. I don't advertise. I don't set out to influence.  I don't intend to provoke.  I don't hope to inspire.   

I certainly don't fuss about the numbers.  In fact I've never looked at visitor statistics. Being popular and attracting a large fan base isn't what blogging is about for me.  Being concerned about blog traffic, and worrying about how to maintain the interest of the following masses,  is the last thing I want or need.

That's not to say that I don't welcome comments because of course I do.  Blogging is far from private. It enables conversations and I'm always ridiculously pleased when Typepad inform me that someone has left a comment on a post.  I always appreciate and read comments and try to make sure the favour is returned by visiting a commenter's blog and/or replying because not to do so is a bit like speaking to someone who continually ignores you.  And that's just plain rude, yes?

So why, after 7 years, will I carry on blogging?  To keep the journal (which is probably what I consider love those cupcakes to be) going and to have something to look back on. To keep recording the cyclical nature of a life being lived and those simple, everyday happenings -  books read, films watched, memories evoked, places visited, festivals celebrated, cakes baked, meals eaten.  To make the time to press the pause button and focus on and savour the little stuff that makes the world go round, those seemingly ordinary details which can get lost or forgotten amongst all the big events (which, let's face it, none of us usually has any problem remembering yet which can also have their place in some posts).  

But I'll carry on mostly because I enjoy being a blogger, me.

 

Life lately in verbs

Relishing the most glorious weather and just being outdoors.

Walking every day, sometimes for an hour around the neighbourhood, sometimes spending a whole afternoon wandering down secluded paths and alongside harvested fields.

Noticing an abundance of hips, haws, elderberries, unripened conkers, yellowing leaves. 

Stopping occasionally to snip a late summer/early autumn posy from the hedgerows.

Adding yet more titles to the shelves.  

Calculating that I'll need to live to a hundred and eleventy twelve to have any chance of getting through the book stash.

Taking stock in the garden and concluding it really was no contest, the slugs and snails won.

Meeting up with friends, enjoying lunches out and visiting an exhibition.

Making jam with just picked blackberries.  

Hoping that anyone noticing the multiple scratches, welts and cuts on my arms will know they are the battle scars of fruit picking and not a desperate cry for help.

Spotting this scarf and casting on my own version.

Baking soda bread using a different recipe to that unsuccessful first attempt and anticipating something which didn't resemble a small grindstone.

Eating a couple of slices of the freshly baked and surprisingly unleaden and light loaf with a bowl of butternut squash soup whilst thinking, you know what, I'm really not a fan of soda bread.

Remarking on the nights drawing in and remembering my dad saying 'It's getting late early'.