love those cupcakes

Accentuating the positive

The Boy and I hopped on a train to London and spent the day following our noses.  No plan, no 'to do' list, no clock watching other than ensuring we were back at Kings Cross in time for the homeward journey. Fuelled by breakfast at Ottolenghi's (a Bircher-type muesli with mango and dates for me, croissant and slices of sourdough bread for toasting at the table for the Boy), we wandered Spitalfields and Shoreditch, bought a selection of the most velvety of chocolates after being hooked in by the irresistible aromas wafting through a doorway on Brick Lane, stocked up on beans-to-bars chocolate with a little glimpse behind the scenes, browsed in book shops (oh, this book), poked about in a stuffed to the rafters junk shop, shuffled around a heaving Borough market, looked across at graffiti and up at landmarks, indulged in doughnuts and macarons (him) and people and dog watching (me).  Just taking the time to take it all in.

The garden's looking a tad soggy in places after all the rain (and a certain dog's sprinkling habit) and the roses have just about finished doing their thing but the black stemmed hydrangea is covered in blooms, one of the robins put in an appearance after a worrying absence and something pink is flowering (absolutely no idea what it is but it definitely isn't the night scented stock I was hoping for) in the now overcrowded pot which had been half heartedly scattered with a packet of unknown seeds at the beginning of summer.

Yesterday was one of those stomach churning days when I attend the hospital for an appointment with my skin cancer specialist and his team (my gynae oncologist stopped seeing me in September last year).  I was examined,  all was declared well and, as a result, I've been discharged.  

After five years, eight months and one day since having radical surgery for a gynaecological malignant melanoma, there will be no more check ups (though the monthly self examinations will continue).  Of course, I cried and the Boy, the mister and I  went out for dinner later at a favourite restaurant because it seemed the right thing to do.  Now there's just the little matter of learning to fly without a parachute.

 

Lately

Nothing exciting to report from here.  

Apart from that afternoon last week when the mister came home from a supermarket trip to find TV crews and reporters at the end of our drive.  No, we hadn't scooped a fortune with a winning set of numbers on a lottery ticket.  They were outside the wrong house.

So, those supermarket visits.  They're happening every day, more or less.  Admittedly, we don't plan menus, salad ingredients and summer berries need to be bought frequently, the various pets demand what feels like constant topping up and we mostly shop without a list so something essential is usually forgotten resulting in a return trip.  But daily?  Who's eating/using all the stuff?

Another blanket is in the making, started in a bit of a panic when crochet club loomed at the weekend and I realised the hooks (I own a total of two) were lying forlornly in the fountain pen box.  I've opted for a mix of small squares (it's already clear they're not all the same size) and can't help wondering if, yet again,  this is destined for the dog's basket.

Whilst the members of our little group were happily crocheting away in the window of the yarn shop, a young girl popped her head round the door and asked if someone could possibly help her.  'I've taught myself to knit but I need to learn how to cast off.  My scarf is currently nine feet long and it's costing me a fortune.'   Bless. 

I'm currently working on a little project after being approached by a local authority to support them in improving services.  It won't significantly bolster the bank account but it's keeping the brain ticking over and it was strangely comforting  to be asked.

Biscuits of the choc chunk, oats and coconut variety made a brief appearance in the kitchen.  Very brief. Seems improvement thinking requires a certain type of fuel.

I stayed up later than usual one night to finally watch the very last episode (I don't usually watch last episodes, clearly having an issue with endings) of my favourite series, Mad Men.  The solitary viewing was predictably accompanied by noisy sobbing.

Source

Another book  was ordered.  (Whilst awaiting delivery, I romped through a murder mystery, the highly enjoyable third in the series about eleven year old amateur sleuth and chemistry wizard, Flavia de Luce.) Funny, isn't it, that, despite an impressive to be read pile, after stumbling across a new to you author, you simply have to get your sticky little mitts on everything in their back catalogue?  Or maybe that's just me.

A treat of a new bottle of perfume came through the letterbox (well, maybe not literally).  I love perfume, always have, probably always will, and I have my trusty favourites but sometimes it's good to live a little dangerously.   This is a white floral with notes of sandalwood, osmanthus and Indonesian patchouli at its base.  Apparently.

The aunt has been yo yo-ing between the hospital and respite care.  She's back at the care home.  For now.

It was strange visiting her on the day that marked seven years since I'd sat in the very next room with my dad as he passed away.  

My dad.  Baker of breads, cakes (his Sachertorte is legendary in these parts) and pastries par excellence.  It was only fitting that night to serve a pudding that the Girlie and Boy, who had tea with my parents every Friday after school, will forever associate with him.

 

Week's round-up

The robin parents were frequent visitors to the garden, or more specifically the bird feeders, earlier in the week, filling their beaks with seeds and mealworms before returning to their home somewhere in the tangle of ivy and shrubs alongside the garage.

This one was snapped taking a breather on the towel I'd left outside the kitchen door after a plant pot painting session.

There was a noisy kerfuffle one evening from the depths of the shrubs.  The birds haven't been seen since.  We fear the worst.

On a happier note, actual tomatoes have appeared in the plant pots in the garden.  Admittedly, I've probably sported larger pimples and we're not going to be harvesting any time soon but still, I grew these from seeds.  Go me.

Staying in the garden, the roses have flourished this summer, in spite of all the neglect, with some blooms the size of saucers and more than enough for cutting and plonking in a vase with sprays of alchemilla mollis (efficacious in the treatment of hernias, perforated eardrums and overly large bosoms, apparently).

Tucked away in a corner at the bottom of the odd shaped plot here, the little summerhouse has received its annual spruce up.  The perfect spot for a sneaky hour on a sunny afternoon with the current read.

For someone else, summer in the garden is all about playing with a string of smiley sausages.  Which almost always means trampled plants.

In the kitchen, several baking sessions resulted in a rhubarb crumble, a very gooey chocolate cake, easier on the fingers cheese and chive scones and cherry and almond rock buns.

And Friday night here is usually pizza night, even for the vegan.

The current book at bedtime (and sometimes earlier), Margaret Atwood's Alias Grace, is an absolute cracker. 

Based on the true story of young servant Grace Marks, who in 1840s Canada, was found guilty with stablehand James McDermott of murdering their employer and his housekeeper.  McDermott was hanged whilst Grace, just sixteen years old at the time, had her sentence commuted to life imprisonment.

The story focuses on the imprisoned Grace and her somewhat guarded account of her life thus far as told during interviews with Dr. Simon Jordan, hired by a group of do-gooders intent on securing a pardon from the Canadian government.  Grace is an admirer of the quilts she comes across in the various households she finds herself employed (each section of the book is named after a quilt pattern - Puss in the Corner, Young Man's Fancy, Broken Dishes and the like), is proficient with a needle and thread (such small stitches), takes pride in the execution of her domestic duties (such detailed description which left me eager to get the washing pegged out on the line and drying in the sun) and knows her place.  But maybe all is not as it seems. Highly recommended.  

 

Friends reunited

On Wednesday, we got to use a couple of Christmas presents.

Tickets to see Fleetwood Mac in Manchester (thanks very much, Boy).

The last time we saw them in concert was a few years ago, when Christine McVie was still on what turned out to be a 16 year sabbatical. 

This time, despite the (well documented) complicated, fractured history, they would all be back together.

But Fleetwood Mac is a band me and the mister have sort of grown up with.

Both of us first came across them when the line up, and the sound, was very different.  

Back in the day, it was Peter Green's Fleetwood Mac and Christine was still Christine Perfect and with Chicken Shack.

I didn't know the mister in those days but it turns out we were at the same venue most Sunday nights, Redcar Jazz Club.  

This was the smoke fugged little place where you joined the queue, paid your 10 bob and got to see up and coming bands like Cream, Pink Floyd, The Who, Jethro Tull and many many more.

I have to admit that, in the years I frequented the club, I was under age.  The mister's a bit older so he was always legal.

This is a picture taken by my brother of me on a Jazz Club night, applying the slap in an attempt to look less like a schoolgirl and more like Christine Perfect.

But it was the place to be and nothing was going to keep me and my two best friends away.

(Part of one year's bookings for the Jazz Club.  

Source:  'The Redcar Jazz Club' ,  Graham Lowe and Dennis Weller) 

When you've been fans of a band for so long, there's always that concern that seeing them one more time might prove to be the wrong thing to do, that it's become clear they've passed their sell by date, that they need to put the instruments into storage, enjoy their pensions and make use of their bus passes. 

Opening with The Chain, they played for about two and half hours, never flagging, never hitting a bum note, never missing a beat, never disappointing.

Other instantly recognisable old favourites were there - Go Your Own Way, Tusk, Don't Stop and the rest. 

It was impossible not to sing along.

It was nigh on perfect.