love those cupcakes

Lately in verbs

Ordering new bowls online. I'm pretty sure they didn't look like this on the website.

Watching The Great, 'an occasionally true story' about Catherine the Great.  It's hilarious, very bawdy, with plenty of effing and blinding and, erm, vomit, and I love it.  I'm a big fan of Nicholas Hoult and he's brilliant as Emperor Peter, huzzah!  Also enjoying this and this and, of course, The Great Pottery Show Down (like Keith, I cry every week).

Eating everything in sight. I don't know whose appetite I've acquired but I wish it would return to it's owner.  If I'm not eating, I'm thinking about eating. I'd like to say I truly savoured this unexpected gift of chocolates (and, if you haven't yet tried Paul A.Young's confections, go treat yourself) but, in all honesty,  I couldn't shove them in my gob fast enough.

Anticipating the weekly supermarket delivery.  It's become the highlight of my week.  It seems I've developed quite the knack for ordering the wrong size/quantity (who knew sunflower oil was available in such teeny bottles or that coriander came in bouquet-sized bunches?) so we're never quite sure what we're going to end up with.  Ooh, the excitement.

Telling porkies.  The Boy was here when last week's order was due to arrive. 'Are you putting lipstick on for the Sainsburys driver?'.   'Don't be ridiculous, my lips are dry and the lipstick helps'.  Okay, so I lied.  

Walking during daylight hours.  Unusually for me, I fancied venturing forth before nightfall and wandered beyond the immediate neighbourhood.  Way beyond.  So beyond I had to ask a passing walker for directions home.

Regretting walking so far as my poor broken feet protested loudly. For days.  Actually, it's a week later and they're still protesting.

Casting off a sweater.  Another homemade piece of clothing which I'm unlikely to wear. 

Casting on another, no doubt also destined for the charity bag. At least all the knitting keeps my hands out of the biscuit tin.  For a little while.

Celebrating the mister's birthday with a Boy-made cake.  Sadly (or should that be fortunately?) not vegan.  Incidentally,  those pretzels on top were hand painted gold, silver and copper. Personally, I couldn't be arsed but to each their own.  

 Delighting in all the snow that's fallen our way.  Mr. Boo enjoys all this cold white stuff as much as I do.  The cats, on the other hand, refuse to set foot over the doorstep.  

Loving how the garden table resembles a giant waffle.

Waffles.

Now, there's an idea.

 

 

Filling in the gaps

Three, two, one, and you're back in the room.

Time flies, even during a pandemic.

Unbelievably, September segued into December and thoughts have now turned to Christmas.

Daily life in the gap has been.... what?  Unremarkable?  Mundane?  Predictable?  Confined?   Stressful?  All of that. 

I haven't ventured far, just to the shops for essentials (including highly essential takeaway pizza and rosemary fries), evening walks round the neighbourhood and the occasional foray into the woods or park during daylight hours (thus avoiding an encounter with Shovelly Joe in the dark). 

Halloween came and went.  The huge uncarved pumpkin languished in the garage until I eventually chopped about half of it into chunks which were popped into the freezer and will be added to to soups and other veg for roasting.  If I  remember they're there. 

Bonfire Night was louder than ever and the dog, who celebrated his 10th birthday a few days later, went into panic stricken meltdown despite sedation.  When it was all over,  I needed sedation.

Some of the traditional pre-festive period activities have happened as usual.  With only a fleeting thought about who will eat it, a  Christmas cake using my dad's recipe and tin has been made, the pud has been steamed (though I forgot to make a wish as I was stirring the mixture), Nigella's chutney decanted into jars (just the two, one for me, one for a friend) and the ingredients for mince pies are ready and waiting (if I make them too far in advance, I scoff the lot). 

The tree was chosen and has been delivered (it's currently sitting in a tub of water in the garage) and a wreath ('Christmas Carol') collected from the loveliest of florists. 

Having confirmed the five year old littlest is still a fan of knitted animals ('Granny teddies'), I've made another, a dog (with a hint of lamb) to add to his much cuddled (their poor little lolling necks suffer most; I empathise - see below) collection.  

Of course, books and reading have featured, though it's still a struggle to maintain focus.  A new-to-me author I discovered was Chris Whitaker, a British crime fiction writer whose novels are based in very convincing small town America.  His diverse characters are beautifully crafted, staying with you long after you've finished reading,  and there's such a strong sense of time and place.  Highly recommended.  

Currently on the bedside table is a collection of festive reads, a mix of old favourites and new titles.  Not usually a fan of the short story, I'm rather enjoying making my way through several Christmas themed anthologies, one story a night along with the appropriate diary entry from Nigel's Chronicles.

I've also done something I swore I'd never do again.  I wielded an assortment of brushes and rollers, wobbled on the ladder and painted.  The dining room.  As soon as I started to paint the ceiling, my rickety neck protested.  Loudly.  Honestly, it sounded like someone was scrunching half a dozen packets of crisps. 

The chosen colour scheme was far from ambitious, just white on somewhat dingy white, but there are no drips and it does look fresher.  I'm chuffed, actually.  More pictures have been added to one of the walls, including one which will serve as a memento (just in case I need to be reminded) of these weird times, and I bought a new floor lamp, which I love as it's big, bold, lights up the table area and means we won't need to use the ceiling light.  

As the virus continues to rage around the globe, Christmas 2020 is likely to be very different for most if not all of us. (One of my friends and her husband, celebrating as a twosome,  will be tucking into pies and peas, something they love but rarely eat, for Christmas lunch).   

Being sensibly cautious in the spirit of we've come this far, let's not blow it, we won't be hosting a family celebration and littlest and his parents will be staying in Manchester.  But in the run up to the Big Day, we'll meet at some midway point along the motorway to hand over gifts (no doubt with accompanying tears, I've won awards for producing those) and homemade nut roast.

Then, my Boy will be here in the bubble of three to join in all the festive overindulging (I've been dreaming of making my way through a box of chocolate liqueurs which I never buy, so what's that all about?), trounce me at Scrabble, entertain the feline troops, generally lighten the atmosphere (which, believe me, sometimes warrants some input from Butlin Redcoats).   

And, you never know, maybe Different Christmas will generate some new traditions. 

Chocolate liqueur, anyone?

 

Summer's end in verbs

Taking stock in the garden.  I was surprised to see a second flush of what are possibly my favourite roses out there, Abraham Darby, and equally surprised by the strong vanilla scent from the white nemesia, which is just glorious.  The yellow flowers growing in two parts of the garden were another surprise.  I have no memory of buying the plants (no surprise there) and not a clue what they are.  

Adding to the book pile.  Always.  The weaving book is a new publication from blogger, Mary Maddocks, with a number of projects to tempt and attempt.  No prizes for guessing what I'm adding to my Christmas list.

Finishing a couple of books at bedtime, bringing the total to 38 so far this year, not that anyone's counting. Lazarus is the seventh title in the Joona Linna series and not one for the faint hearted or weak stomached.  But if, like me, you like your crime fiction Scandi and noir, you might want to give it a try.  Although it would work as a stand alone story, I'd suggest reading The Sandman first. Fifty-Fifty is a cracking legal thriller and highly recommended.

Chucking a recently completed sweater in the bin.  I wasn't at all happy with this make (it was far too short and the neck opening was for someone with a head the size of a ping pong ball).  In an attempt to make it wearable by re-knitting bits, I tried to take it apart but that ended in unmitigated disaster.  Currently on the needles is a long-ish, olive green cardigan and much more likely to be worn.  I do love a cardi.  I've turned into my mum.

Watching the final episode of this and bawling my eyes out (I'm so predictable).  Jennifer Aniston is unexpectedly good (though the same can't be said of Reese).

Stocking the cupboard with jars of jam. I'm not sure why I bother as I'm the only one who eats the stuff and I really don't need more sugar in my life. The fruits (plums and strawberries) were nothing special,  just supermarket and veg shop purchases, but is there a more satisfying sight than a pan of sugar laden preserve in the making, bubbling and spitting away on the hob?  Feeling a tad reckless, I strayed off piste this year and added cinnamon to the plums and rose geranium leaves to the strawberries.  Get me.

Celebrating the tail end of summer with a pie, using good old Bramleys and freshly picked brambles from the hedgerow round the corner.   I'd intended to cover the top entirely with pastry stars but got bored.  Happens quite a lot here.  It weighed a ton, it was so packed with fruit.  Unsurprisingly, I ate most of it.  With custard and Rennie chasers.   Nope, not even a little bit sorry.

Harvesting wild strawberries growing in a pot in the garden.  The plant was in the supermarket reduced trolley with a 59p price tag earlier in the year and home it came with me.  The flavour of these teeny weeny berries was intensely, well,  strawberry-y.  I also managed to grow two tomatoes (yes, just the two) which turned out to be inedible. Luckily, my next-door neighbour has an allotment and she knocked on the door the other day with a present of a bag of cherry tomatoes she'd grown.

Including a bunch of sunflowers in the shopping order because I do like a vase of seasonal flowers.  Sainsburys did not disappoint.

Relishing the rumblings of change, as one season begins to segue into the next.  It's no secret I'm the biggest fan of autumn and, my absolute favourite,  winter. Already my mood is lifting.

With a nod to cooler temperatures, porridge oats have reappeared on the menu, in baked form (yes, embracing all the comfort food here).  I use this favourite recipe but have tinkered with it and ditched the carrots, subbing a layer of sliced fruit on the bottom of the dish (pears, apples, peaches and plums work well) and a scattering of blueberries or raspberries on top. 

It's delicious, with its soft, fruity base, autumnal flavours of cinnamon, ginger and maple syrup and the addition of crunchy nuts and dried fruit (you could easily leave out these last two but I'm a throw everything at it kind of cook).  Once cut into portions, it can be frozen so there's always a little stash.  Serve with a dollop of coconut yoghurt and Bob's your mum's brother.

Feeling thoroughly fed up with continuing hamstring pain, it was time to consult with the physiotherapist. After a lengthy assessment (this particular physio was recommended by my yoga teacher as he takes a whole body approach), it turns out the problem is most likely my shoulder.  Who'da thought?   I've been given various exercises (talk about snap, crackle and pop, other people can actually hear the noises my shoulder makes as I practice them) and follow up appointments, so no doubt time will tell.

Spending an hour or so in the company of Monty Don.  I really enjoy these In Conversation With ...  events which, because of covid restrictions,  are currently taking place online (I've previously seen Margaret Atwood in Birmingham and Nigella in Gateshead).  The ticket for this one included a copy of Monty's latest book which looks most promising. 

I learned quite a lot in that 60 minutes, about nature and the man himself.  Who knew no-one is sure where house martins spend their winters?  Yes, they head for Africa but where exactly?  And I now know the difference between mouse and bat poo (bat poo is crumbly, mouse poo is squidgy).  And did you know Monty is scared of bats? 

Next month it's Nigella again (you can never have too much of Nigella in my opinion), with her latest book also part of the deal I opted for.  I'm really looking forward to it.  Especially as I can watch wearing my pyjamas.

Wondering what lies in store for us all over the next few months and beyond in this strangest of years.  It struck me that we've seen the littlest and his parents just the once since early March.  

Hoping we recognise each other the next time we meet.  

 

Filling in the gaps

August already.

My birthday month (I'm Liz and I'm a Leo, grrr).

Time marches on. 

Although it feels like it stopped at the beginning of the year.

The days are by no means dragging but it's like I'm treading water (not that I've ever tread actual water).

Despite some easing of restrictions nationally, I seem to be still mostly living life to the lockdown beat. 

There's food shopping once a week, dog walking every night, and whatever I feel like the rest of the time.

The garden's had more attention than it would usually and stuff is actually growing.  The rose display was the best yet and now the hydrangeas are putting on a good show.  The pond is still problematic. There was an emergency when the water stopped flowing, which had implications for the remaining fish, and I didn't have a clue what to do.  Cue much Googling and Youtube video watching and hey presto, pond pump located, cleaned and up and running once again.  I've found a local company who can undertake a proper maintenance and cleaning job on it and just need to persuade the now far from rational/ reasonable mister that this would be the best option (for me and the fish).  

Two conifers in the front garden had outgrown their space (I was forever reversing into one of them) and it was time to have them removed.  The resulting space has been strewn with grass seed and watered religiously.  At the moment it's looking a tad, erm, tufty but hopefully will fill out over time.  

Talking of filling out, if the size of my backside is anything to go by, there's been far too much baking going on.  Cakes, biscuits, flapjacks, buns, crumbles (using redcurrants gifted from my neighbour), bread.  You name it, my oven has delivered it.  I've called a halt for the time being and am trying to cook and eat sensibly  (definitely not on a diet, a less cereal, more fruit kind of thing, but I would like to become reacquainted with my jeans).

Sometimes there's a bit of knitting (I've been buying kits from here, three so far) and, despite an ongoing issue with maintaining focus, there's always a book on the go (I've just finished what is undoubtedly the best book I've read so far this year and which may even be one of my best reads ever) and I'm currently loving this.

Unfortunately, yoga hasn't been happening much at all after I injured a hamstring, probably as a result of stupidly over stretching (at my age, you'd think I'd know better). 

I've (somewhat nervously) left the house for reasons other than buying food.  There's been an appointment with my GP ('Wear a face mask'.  'I haven't got one yet'.  'Well, just cover your face with something'. The buff I found in a drawer seemed a better option than a tea towel) and then one with the oncologist ('I like your face mask.'  'Thanks. I've just bought it.  Cost me 45 quid.'  'Someone saw you coming.') at the hospital in another town (don't worry, I'm fine). 

I've been to the dental surgery three times after the crown (neither my dentist nor I will ever forget that particular day) from my tooth fell out (I'm never chewing gum again).  More recently, I've had my hair cut and coloured and I've braved the local park for socially distanced catch ups with a couple of lovely friends.  Yesterday, after a highly stressful start to the day, I got in the car, parked by the river, sat and read my book, people and dog watched.   It helped.  

Deprived of conversation most days, I'm probably still talking far too much to supermarket staff (and to the poor bloke who came to fix the washing machine) but, thankfully, since we've been part of his 'support bubble', the Boy has been able to pop over at weekends, providing some much appreciated company and chat (and help with the removal of bags and bags of garden rubbish).

Then, last Sunday, the littlest and his parents drove up from Manchester to join in the Boy's birthday celebrations (a picnic in the Priory followed by mint choc chip ice cream cake and champagne back here), the first time we've seen them since February. 

The soon to be 5 littlest has grown.  A lot.  And currently speaks with an American accent ( 'Hey, Mom!').

So, that's what I've been up to since I last posted.  Nothing wildly exciting.  Not all bad.  Ticking over. 

But I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a permanent knot in my stomach, that living with someone with dementia isn't testing me to my limits, that I wasn't missing my old life, that I wasn't wishing for the old rhythm.  

I know there'll be no neat and tidy finale to this seemingly interminable pandemic and that the way ahead is paved with oh so much uncertainty (difficult for those of us who like to plan and have adventures of one sort or another in the pipeline, to have something to look forward to).

Heeding the advice of the wellbeing gurus, I'm trying to focus less on what isn't possible and can't be planned for and more on what I have and can still do.  Being more comfortable with the uncomfortable.

It ain't easy.

Baby steps, baby steps.

 

Making new friends during lockdown

Amplified by the social distancing restrictions, conversation and companionship are very thin on the ground here.

I'm missing meeting up with friends. 

For coffee, lunch, an early doors dinner. 

To talk, to laugh, to moan, to cry, to put the world to rights.

So I made a new friend.

Literally.

We've really clicked.

Hej till Greta.

(Translation:  Say hello to Greta)

 

It's a wrap

So that was February.

For one reason or another, it was a mostly home based month, with, if the pictures in the camera are anything to go by, a fair amount of time being spent in the kitchen. 

We're partial to a cake here (a bit too partial, in my case) and there are usually baking essentials on hand to rustle up something sweet whenever the mood takes.  February's highlights were a rhubarb and almond cake, a fruit and marmalade loaf and gingerbread, all easy bakes, all vegan, all disappearing far too quickly. 

But none will be consumed for the duration of Lent (I was going to go down the path of giving up all things sugary but that's a hot cross bun too far).  I managed to abstain from book buying last year and that was one helluva challenge.  This should be, well,  a piece of cake.

Not a fan of sourdough but really fancying a crusty, open textured bread to accompany a soup that was in the making, I tried this recipe.  The dough was very wet, worryingly so, and I was highly dubious it would result in something edible (or even something which could actually be removed from the casserole dish it was baked in), but it far exceeded the low expectations.  Not the prettiest of loaves but definitely one to try again.

Browsing in town one day, I came across a recipe book I'd had my eye on for a while at a special price so, of course, it came home with me and I've been cooking from it ever since. 

Vases filled with cheap and cheerful supermarket flowers have been dotted about the house, along with some hyacinths I'd grown (the second attempt and much more substantial than the earlier weedy ones) which became so heavy with blossom I had to cut them.  The scent was glorious.

The Priory up the road,  a favourite haunt of ours,  is closed during winter but was opened up one Sunday for the annual Snowdrop Walk.  It was a bright, dry, extremely windy and bitterly cold day but I love snowdrops (yep, a proper galanthophile), so dragged the mister along to have a good old nosey.  (There are no pictures of the blanket of white as the camera battery died shortly after we arrived and, typically, the spare was sitting in the charger at home).  We didn't linger amongst the bobbing litttle heads too long and spent the remainder of the afternoon in a coffee shop in the company of toasted sandwiches and a fellow customer's dog.

There was the odd dabble with things of a crafty nature.  A sea glass jewellery workshop, like the mosaic session at the beginning of the year, was hugely enjoyable and accident-free.  The latter was surprising, given the requirement to use an electric drill.  In water.  (My track record with sharp blades, naked flames and most things connected to an electrcity supply is, it has to be said, painfully poor). But, at the end, I had ten fingers intact, several pieces of jewellery which are wearable (maybe) and a new-found respect for my dentist.

And I finished knitting a bag, far from perfect but a satisfying little project and a handy size for carrying a book.

The highlight of the month was meant to be a day trip to London for the final day of an exhibition at the V&A.  Rail and museum tickets had been purchased and I was happily counting down the days. Then, the storm known as Dennis disrupted travel across the country and plans had to be abandoned. It was so disappointing (in the absence of proper holidays, these little outings are essential for purposes of maintaining sanity) but, given the situation at home,  I couldn't take the risk of being stranded at Kings Cross.  C'est la vie.

February ended with one of the cats needing an MRI scan on his heart shortly followed by a morning of dental treatment whilst, on the house front, various bits of pipework required emergency attention (you know the kind of thing, you come home from a yoga class to find water gushing onto the drive and the following day something else drops off).  The plumber spent so much time here over a two week period, fixing one problem after another, I was half expecting a visit from his soon-to-be wife (I'd been treated to the unabridged version of the story of the engagement ring).  The bank were understandably suspicious of the flurry of activity on the bank account. 

The four year old littlest was named Player of the Month at his new football club (shame he doesn't play for the team whose strip he insists on wearing as relegation looms)

and there was news from my favourite crime writer.

Now a new month begins to unfold.

Happy March!

 

 

Lately in verbs

Galloping through book number three of the year.  Exquisitely detailed descriptions of place (the marshlands of North Carolina), of nature, of clothes worn, of food prepared, meals eaten.  Set in the 50s and 60s, it's a story of abandonment and survival, difference and intolerance, rejection and loneliness.  And maybe a murder.    Not quite perfect but very readable and **** .

Finishing the littlest's stripey jumper, which should fit. Well, it will if his arms hang past his knees. 

Watching Season 1 of Anne with an E on Netflix.  Based on the book, Anne of Green Gables, the familiar storylines are there but this version is darker, presenting a much more miserable picture, mostly via flasbacks, of an orphan's life.  So, Anne's vivid imagination seems to be more a way of dealing with the abuse she has suffered prior to being taken in by the Cuthberts.  Although it's a period piece, it's modern, if that makes sense.  The Prince Edward Island setting (and the Cuthberts' house) is stunning and, so, whilst it's not what I was expecting (I love the book),  I'm sticking with it.  For now.

Wondering what on earth has happened to the hyacinths I planted.  They seemed to be doing well, but the flower spikes (blue, huzzah!) are stunted, poor wee things.  They still have that glorious hyacinth fragrance, though you have to stick your neb right in to get a whiff. 

Making marmalade. It was a messy business, not helped by one of the glass jars in the motley collection shattering whilst being filled.  But it tastes so good. Too good, maybe.

Consuming far too much sugar.  See above.

Missing the coffee machine which has been spending time in coffee machine hospital.  I tried coffee bags and a cafetiere in the meantime but it just wasn't the same.  Cue lots (the bank account confirms) of visits to cafes where sweet vegan treats have also been consumed (resistance, I find, is futile).  Costa's rocky road, Nero's raspberry croissant and a cherry and almond scone at a newish vegan eatery up the road were memorable.

Sweeping up white feathers which were scattered along the length of the drive and in piles by the dustbin and on our neighbours' front garden.  From the amount I had to dispose of, they'd once kept an albatross warm and dry.

Sending Buzz cat to Coventry.  See above.

Filling the vase with tulips, my absolute favourites.

Learning the basics of modern calligraphy.   This was a hugely enjoyable workshop, held one evening in an upstairs room in a bistro, and had nine of us getting to grips with securing the nib in its holder, loading it with just the right amount of ink to avoid blobs and positioning the hand properly to ensure a scratch-free flow across the paper.  Honestly, we were all so focused on forming the letters (thin upward, thick downward strokes), time sped by (I only remembered to eat my slice of vegan chocolate cake just before everything was cleared away).   Now for some home practice.  Without spilling the ink.

Meeting up with my girl in London, to celebrate her birthday.

Demolishing a very delicious  afternoon tea.

Lurking long after the table had been cleared after discovering the presence of a TV film crew.  I've always felt I'd make an excellent extra.  After all, I do have stage experience and yes, yes, I know I was only three at the time but it all counts.  However, I suspect this might be as close as I get to a BAFTA.

Returning home after a fab day out.  With the wrong box of afternoon tea leftovers.

 

So far, so good

Just a week into the new year but for some strange reason it feels much longer.  I've always loved January, I think because it was a big birthday month in my family, kicking off with my dad's on the 12th, shortly followed by my brother's.  But now we just have the one, my girl's, towards the end.  

Yoga and tai chi classes re-started this week and I was so ready for them, not just for the practice itself but for re-establishing a little routine into my week and reconnecting with friends.  The theme for our Wednesday yoga sessions is 'Empowerment'.  I foresee a lot of challenging poses in my near future (not that they're not usually challenging).

The first daffodils of the year appeared in the supermarket so, of course, I popped a couple of bunches into the basket, and the hyacinth bulbs (blue, with a bit of luck) I planted before Christmas appear to be faring well in one of the bedrooms.

Typepad informs me that I read 61 books in 2019, which surprises me somewhat (I know it isn't a competition but that's the most I've read in a 12 month period since starting this blog).  Some were memorable, others I couldn't begin to tell you what they were about (though that probably says more about my memory than about the books).  Christina asked about favourites from 2019 and I struggled to recall the titles I'd enjoyed most.  So I'm now trialling a simple (1-5) star rating system for each book I read this year so that the standout ones really do, well, stand out.  The current book at bedtime is White, a shortish novel set in my absolute favourite part of the world, Antarctica. Just needs a foot of snow outside to add to the reading experience.

Eating chez nous is still on the indulgent side of healthy, and there are far too many sugary snacks being consumed, but the addition of two new recipe books to the collection should help to shake up the menus. Soonish.

In the absence of mince pies and Christmas cake (we still have non vegan ones), I baked a batch of fudgy, nut laden brownies using this recipe.  I didn't dust them with icing sugar.  Well, no point in over-egging the pudding (or whatever the equivalent is in veganese).

Although sea glass is to be found on the beach just a bit further up the north east coast from here, I've never collected it.  Actually, I'd never handled it at all until I participated in a mosaic workshop last weekend.  It was highly enjoyable.   A group of seven of us got stuck into embellishing wooden coasters and picture frames with beautifully hued pieces chosen from a huge pile of sea glass (plus bits of driftwood in my case) using tubes of grout (I really shouldn't have worn black) after hearing lots of interesting stuff about the glass itself.  The end results were, oh, how shall I put it, rustic?  Primitive?  Artisan?  Rough and ready?  I'll maybe use the coaster as a plant pot stand and I think I know just the place for the frame (hint:  it's a short word, beginning with 'b' and ending with 'n').

The venue for the workshop was a lovely yarn shop in a neighbouring town and, surprise surprise, I took the opportunity to stock up on materials for a new project.  I chose a straightforward pattern to knit a sweater (and maybe the matching hat) for the littlest which just might keep the fingers too busy to dip into the treats cupboard.  And pigs might fly.

I'm continuing with writing a diary after using a five year line a day one since 2015.  My new one is a much prettier version, a Christmas gift, and, over time, I'll enjoy reading the entries from previous years on any given date.  

Something of a tradition now, I haven't made any New Year's resolutions, preferring instead to choose a guiding word for the year which, once again,  I've also expanded into a sankalpa.  After much pondering, I've decided to go with compassion.  Compassion for others, for animals, for planet earth, for myself.  

I'll give it my best shot.

 

Miscellany

There have been some spectacular sunsets lately, with each one more stunning than the last.  Vivid orange, red, pink, magenta.  It used to be said that they're seen here because of all the surrounding heavy industry but much of that has long disappeared.  Whatever the reason,  I can't get enough and with every one make a grab for the camera (whilst hoping our neighbours over the road don't get the wrong idea about what I'm up to).

My mum was an October baby (Aunty M, too, though twenty years later) and on her birthday every year when I was growing up, my dad would give me a ten bob note from his till to go and buy flowers from Belt's, the local shop on the other side of the marketplace for all things floral.  Every year I'd choose those huge headed bronze chrysanthemums which forever since I've associated with my mother.  I went in search for some on what would have been her birthday the other day but had to make do with a multi cooured bunch of smaller specimens from the supermarket.

The Boy and I travelled up the A19 to Gateshead to spend a couple of hours in the company of Nigella at The Sage.  It was a nightmare of a journey, with traffic jams and road closures and badly signposted diversions and an increasingly ratty driver (who, moi?), but we only missed about 15 minutes and an entertaining evening was had by all. 

There was a Q and A session in the second half, with unscreened questions from the audience (how risky is that?).  There were the predictable ones ('What would you choose as your final death row meal?' 'Do your children cook?') but the best was from a young woman querying the contents of Nigella's utensil drawer.  It went something like this: 'I really like those cup measures you use on the telly and I've searched for them everywhere but just can't find any in the shops or online so that's a shame and where do you buy your knives because I bought a set from The Range and when I put them in the dishwasher the handles fell off?'. 

A mooch in the charity shop (there's a very good Oxfam one near here where prices are very reasonable) resulted in book purchases (three for me and a sparkly one for the littlest) and a bar of chocolate (not 'pre-loved', I hasten to add) for the non book reading (like Kanye and Trump, apparently) mister. 

 

 

Yoga hasn't been featuring much at all recently.  Following a skin biopsy (still awaiting results) and stitches, the advice was yes, you can do yoga but no, you cannot stretch for three weeks.  A tad oxymoronic, methinks.  So I've been sitting on my mat on the floor in the spare bedroom, managing not much more than some half hearted toe wiggling.

 

My favourite yarn shop at the coast offers a programme of craft workshops throughout the year and, as I'd enjoyed two previous needle felting sessions, I signed up for a third.  The aim of this one was to produce a woolly landscape based on a picture of choice (I plumped for one of my photographs from the Antarctic adventure, with a blue, white and grey palette) as inspiration.  Five relatively pain free (just the one elastoplast on this occasion) hours flew past as we all cracked on with our pictures, stabbing tufts of wool into rectangles of old blanket, which were finally glued onto canvassses.  Mine was, oh, what's the word........hideous.  The mister, he of few words and even fewer compliments, was struck dumb at the sight of it.  Like so many of my attempts at crafting, it ended up in the bin.  Ah, well.  Nothing ventured and all that.  And at least there was a glimpse of the sea.

 

I resisted the call of the vacuum cleaner one morning (to be fair, it doesn't take much to turn a deaf ear) to tag along on the dog walk  through the wood that's just five minutes from our front door.  The lure of the beck was just too much for a certain spaniel to resist.  Photographing berries and fallen leaves and soggy dog proved  too much for someone else to resist.

 

 

 

Later today, there's a talk at the central library in town on Amazing Teesside Women.  Maybe I'll get a mention.

 

Like Anne of Green Gables, I love Octobers, me.

 

Staying local in verbs

Spending an evening in the newly renovated town hall in the company of my favourite local band and the Northern Orchestra.  Typically, I left my camera at home so the picture is courtesy of someone else's.

Source

Listening to author and local lass Sarah Dunnakey talk about her book and the writing process.  She's also a question setter for programmes including Mastermind, Pointless, University Challenge and Eggheads so, of course, a literary quiz followed.  I didn't win.  I wasn't even close (in my defence, the winners worked as a team).  Shame, really, as the prize was a collection of books and a stack of chocolate, both of which I can always find room for.  

Making a first visit (no excuse as they've been living there since the late 1970s) to the town's dinosaurs at Teesaurus Park.  This was once a heavily industrialised area and the park, established in an industrial estate and on what had been a slag heap, is a surprising oasis of nature and calm.  Like so much of the green space here, the council made moves to sell the land a couple of years ago but, following an unexpected change of heart, these dinosaurs were saved from extinction.  

Eating the worst vegan afternoon tea.  Imagine dry as a bone sandwiches (no butter substitute, just lettuce leaves and slices of tomato atop tastes of sawdust gluten free bread), a dish of dairy-free ice cream, a bunch of grapes, slices of banana draped in melted chocolate, a jar of raspberry puree,  two  strawberries and a slice of way past its best frangipane tart.  Can't think why the chef needed several days notice to put such a sorry offering together.  At least my cousin and the alpacas the other side of the window appeared to be much happier with theirs.

Introducing the littlest to the Transporter (we used to be rather good at building bridges here).  Not sure what he was expecting to see but he asked repeatedly, 'Where's the bridge?' and then was sidetracked by the strawberries calling his name from an old stone planter outside the operator's cabin.  Ah, well.  Still a working bridge, ferrying cars, bikes and pedestrians from one side of the river to the other, the Transporter was out of action to the pubic the day we visited but there was a practice run and we watched as the empty gondola, suspended over the water, made its way across.  Not that the littlest was impressed.  He was too busy throwing sticks and gravel through the railings and enjoying the plops and splashes as they landed.

Remembering, with a slight feeling of nausea, the day the Boy jumped off the top.  

Bemoaning my still restricted mobility but using the time reluctantly spent indoors to work on a blanket for Boo (he's been a good boy), read from the book mountain (Lullaby and If We Were Villains are both recommended), bake and devour spicy buns and watch the latest episode of season 2 of The Handmaid's Tale.  Intense, compelling, chilling, wrenching.  It's excellent, it really is, but I'd say definitely not one for binge watching.  Blessed be the fruit loops.

Admiring the roses in the garden and reckoning they've never put on such a good show.  (Can't be as a result of anything I've done.) Some have been picked and brought into the house.  One, an Abraham Darby, I think, has continued to grow in the vase and is now the size of my head.  Well, maybe the size of a saucer.

Wondering (both sofas face windows and there's been an excess of sofa sitting lately) why I never manage to achieve streak free windows (the insides; Nathan, our window cleaner throughout the 26 years we've lived in this house,  never leaves streaky outsides).  I use water with a dash of washing up liquid and a splash of vinegar, a fake chamois/shammy and kitchen roll paper to polish.  Where am I going wrong?