love those cupcakes

Just a Friday afternoon

The note on the locked door said 'Closed for lunch'.   Not the warmest welcome when you don't want to be there at all and are this close to getting back in the car and shooting off home.

But you do what you know is the right thing and pass some time aimlessly walking around the card shop nearby until that white painted door with the overly ornate black hinges is eventually opened.

'How are you?', inquires the receptionist.

'Well, I'd rather be anywhere but here', you reply.

'Me, too', she says helpfully.

You take a seat in the otherwise empty waiting area and pick up the newspaper that's been thoughtfully provided, though you're too anxious to concentrate on the day's headlines and anyway you haven't brought your reading glasses with you so it's all a blur.

'Come through', invites the young woman in the black uniform.

And so the repair of your poor, broken by a piece of sourdough toast, tooth begins.  

Source

'Funny how my airways close the minute the chair reclines', you mutter nervously.

'It's your closed airways or my back', the man in the white coat retorts.

From your fully reclined position (his back won, then), you wonder yet again why on earth there's a telly suspended from the ceiling because who in their right mind would think that anyone in this 'I'm having difficulty breathing' position and with someone's latex gloved hands poking about in their gob would have any desire to watch some rerun or other with muted sound.

There follows an hour of, now, how can you put this........ sheer hell.  There are the most unsettling sounds, presumably from the impressive array of lethal looking weaponry at the White Coat's disposal, including the dreaded drill which at one point feels like it's about to strike oil or at least your brain.  Then that strong  burning smell, which you silently pray is due to a  fire and that you'll be asked to evacuate the building forthwith but quickly realise is coming from the vicinity of your jaw.   You try desperately hard not to swallow but you just can't stop yourself and, oh my word, what was that foul tasting substance that just went down your throat?  It's bad enough that your airways are blocked but, unbelievably, a sheet of rubber is placed over your mouth and nostrils ('Isolating your tooth now') and you just know he really didn't need to completely block your breathing holes and is probably paying you back for biting his finger a couple of times, oh, alright, three times, and yes, you're definitely going to expire right there in that damned chair.  

Just when you think it can't get any worse, he commands you to  'Open wider'.  Wider?  Your mouth's been open to its limits for nigh on sixty minutes, your entire lower face is aching like crazy and you're thinking, what's he trying to do, get his elbows in?

At long last, he says you're done.  For now.  Oh, and you're going to be in pain for at least three days which might develop into raging toothache.  What he fails to tell you is you'll consume half your body weight in ibuprofen and paracetamol for most of the following week whilst lying supine on the sofa, you won't sleep, you'll be unable to close your mouth properly and, whilst you're out with the dog because you've been craving fresh air, you'll have an attack of vertigo, staggering like your dad after a really good Saturday night in the workmen's club and only making it back home by being propped up by your obliging mister.

 'And next time I won't need to use an anaesthetic'.

Yeah, right.

Over my dead body.

 

Snippets

What an emotional week that was; one which included birthdays of the closest of relatives no longer here; one when it was beginning to feel like each day brought news of the ending of someone's, both celebrity and family member, life.  Stark reminders indeed that no-one gets out of this place alive.

But there have been pleasurable bits, too.  

The crochet squares were retrieved from their Christmas hiding place in the loft ('Get up that ladder, Boy') and stitched together. With a sewing needle rather than a crochet hook, and in my usual ham-fisted way.  But it has the look and feel of a blanket in the making. Many more squares are now needed.

Another cookbook was delved into and another recipe tried.  This one was Rose Elliot's lentil and sun-blush tomato shepherd's pie with cheesy mash, for the two non vegans here.

The day after the first snowfall of the year (admittedly not that much, just enough to provide a wintry covering), a stunning sunset appeared outside the living room window. I  happily snapped away, with the fleeting hope that our neighbours over the road twigged what I was up to and my name doesn't end up on some register somewhere.

With more ice than snow for most of the week, walking (when it happened; some days I took the safer option of staying indoors and left the mister and Boo to it) has been perilous and more of the 'small steps, try to emulate a penguin' variety. But the local high spot in the distance has looked seasonally appropriate.

Books, the perfect sofa companions on cold afternoons (along with a mug or two of something hot and caffeine filled) have been purchased, revisited, enjoyed, though it was probably not the best idea to continue a psychological thriller/ghost story through the night until it was finished.  I can recommend all of these but have a feeling the Margaret Forster novel (I have re-read this so many times) is currently out of print. However, you should manage to locate a copy, used or otherwise, quite easily.

There was a chilly weekend walk by the river in the market town up the road, with a variety of much needed hot drinks and toasted sandwiches (save for the littlest in the group) in the coffee shop afterwards. 

A batch of chocolate and peanut butter cupcakes were baked for an early celebration of the visiting Girlie's birthday.  They soon disappeared, which is usually a good sign, though I'm not at all confident I could reproduce them as they were most definitely a result of the  'make it up as you go along, don't bother to measure' method.

Finally, 

and Boo rocks a beret.

 

Thank you for the music

*** 

Week in verbs

Choosing a theme for the year.  No resolutions.  No goals.  Just one word.  Presence.

Treating myself the house to the first bunch of flowers of the year.  Tulips, my favourites.

Reading a book brought back from New York.  This one seems to have everything in it - time travel, magic, a serious medical condition, a whole raft of personal tragedies, a Jane Austen-esque titular character, murder, mayhem and the rest - but it's a tad saccharine for my taste and completely failing to engage me.  One destined for the ditched-halfway-through pile, methinks.

Inhaling the glorious scent from the hyacinths in the kitchen.  The mister thought I'd really lost it when he caught me shoving my phizzog into the blooms.  

Listening to a Royal Northern Sinfonia string sextet in our town's rather fabulous reference library and marvelling at the fact that, for once, I didn't cry.

Wondering if the littlest relative has a musical future ahead of him.

Finishing the last of the Christmas truffles.  Such rich, velvety morsels.  Consumed oh so slowly, each tiny bite truly savoured. Said nobody, ever.  Honestly, they didn't touch the sides.

Sipping a glass or two of sherry.  I know.   I watched the news.  Yes, living on the edge here. 

Joining the lovely Penny in her quest to try new recipes from the books on the shelves.  This week I made (with just a couple of tweaks because I just can't help myself) Smoky Veggie Feijoada from a cookbook received as a Christmas gift.  It was so delicious we all just got stuck in.  And I forgot to take a picture.

Buying a new top because this time of year is all about living Danishly.  Apparently.

  

 

Out of the mouths of babes, take 2

 

'It's time to try real food, you say?  Well, I'm a big boy now (or so everyone keeps telling me) and milk is so yesterday.  Bring it on!'

 

'What the hell kind of crap is this you're shovelling in?'

 

'First impressions in one word?  Meh.'

 

'Another day, another sweet potato and I think I might be getting the hang of this eating lark.'

 

'Honestly, change can be so exhausting for a four months old ba............zzzzz.'

 (Pictures courtesy of the Girlie)

 

Out of the mouths of babes......

I found myself walking the Boo on my own the other night as the mister had a rendezvous in a pub (he wasn't sure which one exactly but that didn't seem to worry him) with one of his oldest (as in from school days) friends who was visiting from San Francisco.

We took the usual winter route, with no-one else in sight  until a chap and his young (I'd guess 5 ish) son appeared in front of us on the path. They'd clearly been to the garage for essential provisions if the over-full carrier bag, which one of them was struggling to carry, was anything to go by.

I'm a quick walker, especially in soggy conditions (and compared to the mister who positively dawdles), so we soon overtook them, though the little boy tried his hardest to keep up with us (Boo was undoubtedly the attraction).

As we stopped for a comfort break (the dog's comfort, not mine), the other two walked past, with the little boy taking great interest in what was happening on the grass in the vicinity of Boo's rear end.

'Oh, look, ' he shouted, 'the girl's picking up the dog poo.'

Hang on a minute, what was that? 

No, not the bit about the poo.  A girl?  He called me a girl.  Me, who could give Methuselah a run for his money.

Alrighty, yes, I know he was very little and yes,  it was very dark, but I'm at the stage where birthdays mean more candles than cake and, unless they introduce an upper age limit,  I'm never going to be asked for ID when buying booze.

Compliments of any sort are a bit thin on the ground here so I have to take them where I can get them.  And I'm grabbing that inadvertent one from a titchy person with both hands, thank you very much.

I'm telling you, that boy will go far.

And I skipped home.