love those cupcakes

Catch-up

So, here we are, chugging along towards the longest day of the year  Where does the time go?  What have I been up to?

I did something I've been toying with for a long time.  I joined a book club. Actually, it was more that a friend turned up at the door, handed me a book and told me I was now a member of one.   Although initially nervous about joining a group of strangers to talk about the book of the month (what could I say other than I liked it or I didn't like it?), it's proving to be highly enjoyable.  So far I've managed to finish all the books, with just one being a load of cheesy tripe.  Our next read, Service by Sarah Gilmartin, was chosen by yours truly.  It may well challenge the cheese lovers.

I picked tulips at the Priory over the road from the Boy's apartment.  It was surprisingly quiet with the only other pickers being a couple and their three little girls.  'Oh, look,' exclaimed one of the littles, picking up a soggy white petal.  'A feather!'.  The children were delightful.  The tulips were squeaky.

I've added to the book pile (and not just because of the afore mentioned book club membership). I can't stop myself. And Waterstones don't help with their double points weekends.

I spent a few days in a cottage in Hebden Bridge with the Boy.  There was good food, a day exploring Haworth and the home of the Brontes, sauntering, shopping and the Eurovision song contest. Perfect.

I practise Tai Chi and Qi Gong twice weekly in an attempt to bring some calm and flexibility into my life.  My teacher can see ghosts.  It makes for interesting classes.  

I've spent some time taking stock of the garden.  It's not big by any means but it's a tricky plot and, like my hair, many of the plants and shrubs are completely out of control. But there's some colour out there, the roses are flourishing and the bees are buzzing.  The weeping cherry tree at the front of the house died so had to be removed.  By professionals.  I know my limits, though I still think one good push would have done the job.  The dilapidated bird house had tenants for only the second time in all the years it's been in situ on the garage wall.  The first occupants were wasps.  This time a family of blue tits took up residence.  It was a nerve racking period but ended well.

I've been enjoying regular visits to various local coffee shops, so regular I'm greeted with 'Your usual?' in several.  The drink of choice doesn't vary (soya milk latte) and is always in a takeaway cup (the coffee stays hot).  Sometimes there's also a raspberry croissant or a granola flapjack or maybe a chocolate chip cookie (all vegan, of course).  I read. I pat dogs. I people watch. As my nearest and dearest have pointed out, I could have a worse habit.

 

This and that

The weeks are certainly flying by.  One minute you're moaning about the heat and eye searingly bright sunlight, then you blink and find yourself hurtling towards the end of the year, with Perry Como's rendition of Joy to the World blasting out whilst you press the pause button to drink your soya latte in the coffee shop.  It's probably a sign of old age.  Everything else seems to be.

Life's been busy, with mostly mundane but necessary stuff.  These days, we 're spending more time at home and I don't walk as much as I probably should (the mister is still managing the dog walking so I'm not yet needed for that) but I enjoyed a solitary wander and leg stretch round the neighbourhood, having a good old poke about in the hedgerows and stopping to exchange pleasantries with a friend's horse (who, I'm sure, would have preferred to have been on the receiving end of something rather more edible). 

It's still colourful out there, despite all the rain and sog (which has been nothing like as extreme as that being experienced in other parts of the country), though you do get a sense of a season on the cusp (one morning Jack Frost had covered the the car windscreen with the most beautiful icy fronds).  I love the palette at this time of year, though they're colours that don't feature indoors at all. Well, apart from in a vase or pot.   And I'm currently undecided about a ginger coloured shirt (satin, no less) which is waiting patiently in an online basket.

At the end of last month, me and the Boy were very lucky to get to hear Margaret Atwood in conversation at the Symphony Hall in Birmingham. After a tricky rail journey (two trainloads of passengers absorbed into one with only four carriages) and checking in at the hotel much later than planned, we found ourselves with just enough time to squeeze in a much needed dinner at Carluccio's. 

Margaret (it feels like we should be on first name terms, I've read so many of her books) didn't disappoint and I loved seeing her walk onto the stage clutching her handbag.  Honestly, I could sit and listen to authors talk about their work and the writing process until the cows come home.  

Birmingham is a city I'm not at all familiar with (I used to change trains at New Street on my way home from university and I once spent a day shopping there with Aunty M when I was in my teens).  There wasn't much time to explore during this overnight stay but it had a good feel, people were friendly and it was good to see the bull suitably rigged out in readiness for Hallowe'en.

November's book subscription box didn't disappoint, either, with a planner, bookmark, notebook, pen, zipped bag, a pin and Doris Lessing's The Golden Notebook (which has been on my reading list for yonks).  There's just something about receiving a boxful of book related surprises each month and, so far, I've been sent titles I haven't read previously.

 A charity shop forage yielded a copy of Val McDermid's The Distant Echo, a writer I know only through the telly.  This is a crime novel of the 'did they, didn't they and, if they didn't, who did' kind, an easy and enjoyable read, just maybe a tad slow and drawn out in parts.  I'll certainly be on the lookout for more in the series. 

The current book at bedtime is the second novel from Will Dean.  Like his earlier Dark Pines, the setting is Sweden and the story similarly features hearing impaired journalist Tuva Moodyson.  I'm not far into it but already there's a strong sense of place.  And liquorice.

The now four year old littlest visited at the weekend. Whilst he tucked into his breakfast Cocopops, I chatted to him about this and that (just like I'm doing here).  Breaking off from all the munching, he looked up at me and uttered the words,  'Granny, you're really getting on my nerves'. 

Dear Reader, I sincerely hope I haven't had the same effect on you.

 

Hallowe'en-y

When I was a child, Hallowe'en was all about carved turnips rather than pumpkins, which were only seen in books (before being transformed into glass coaches).  String handles would be attached for easy carrying and they would be lit with candles (not mine; my parents were safety conscious so I had to use a torch). 

We didn't knock on doors for sweets, either.  The aunties and some of the neighbours would give us cousins small amounts of money as we walked up and down the street with our lanterns and the church used to organise a party where there was a competition for the best turnip. (The photograph was taken in my aunt's house, just before me and my cousin were taken to one of those parties.) 

I won once, with Marley's ghost, though I didn't have a clue who Marley was.  My dad did all the veg cutting which seemed to take forever.  Then he stuck two knitting needles in the bottom of the turnip from which hung one of my brother's white shirts. Wooooo!!!!!!

Earlier today, I hacked away at the pumpkin.  It's now on the step outside the front door, attracting lots of lovely trick or treaters.  Hopefully the sweet treats don't run out.  Last Hallowe'en I had to supplement with chocolate biscuits from the tin.

This year I was determined to reduce waste and so we've had pumpkin, carrot and ginger soup with roasted chilli pumpkin seeds, followed by maple frosted pumpkin cookies. 

We're pumpkined out.

So is the cat.  

Once the knocks on the door have petered out, I'll be watching my favourite Hallowe'en film  (he's a tinker, that Michael Myers) and finishing the day with a ghost story.  

I love October 31st, me.

 

Lately in verbs

Walking in the park.  I'm continuing to enjoy the seasonal changes, though that unmistakable and rather wonderful smell of autumn is still absent.  (It probably needs colder temperatures and a hint of woodsmoke in the air.)   

We're lucky to have this public park on our doorstep. There's a walled garden, museum, lakes and a monthly farmers market. The site of the cottage where one Captain James Cook was born can be found here, too. (Yep, arguably the world's greatest ever explorer is a fellow Smoggie). 

Persuading one of the park's many resident squirrels to pose for the camera. It did involve a bit of lurking behind a tree (me, not the squirrel).  Fortunately, there was no-one around to wonder what on earth I was up to. 

 

 

Bringing some autumnal colour indoors.  I associate chrysanthemums with my mother who was always given a bunch of those huge standard bronze coloured ones for her birthday.  They're not so readily available these days but I picked up this potted plant (I think it's a Korean 'mum) in Sainsburys. 

Returning to basics with a spot of simple baking.  I don't venture much into the world of patisserie these days (the mister has a reduced appetite and my jeans are far too snug).  There's the weekly batch of chocolate chip cookies to coincide with a visit from the Boy or the littlest or both, supplemented mid week with something similarly quick and easy, like these buttercream topped buns, or Granny cakes, as the littlest calls them.  Just enough to keep my hand in.

Replacing a fatsia japonica which had given up the ghost.   The original plant had lived outside in a pot next to the kitchen door for years,  seemingly quite content. Until this summer, when the pot became inexplicably waterlogged, the leaves turned yellow before dropping off, leaving a soggy stump.  I've no idea what the problem was but clearly it was time to start again with a shiny new plant.

Meeting my cousin for lunch.  She'd been given an early Christmas present and brought it with her.  

The coffee shop  (in neighbouring North Yorkshire) was dog friendly (one Bedlington, one Cockapoo and two Skye terriers were already enjoying the facilities) and the pup was very well behaved.  Quiet as a mouse, actually, and almost the same size.  Best not mention the outing to Boo who is very partial to a toasted teacake.

Stocking up with a variety of Spring bulbs for the pots in the back garden.  Who knows, maybe this will be the year I actually get round to planting them.

Reading.  Of course.  Book number 55 this year was the debut novel from the creator of the TV series, The Killing.   

Set largely in Copenhagen, this is a crime thriller/police procedural about a murderer with a unique calling card.  It's a hefty read but the pace is maintained throughout, with strong characters, great atmosphere and a complex storyline that kept me guessing right to the end.  But subtlety isn't one of our killer's strong points and the murder scenes are gruesome, though not gratuitously so.  If you like your crime fiction to be Scandi and noir, then this is probably one for you.  If you've a sensitive stomach, best leave it on the shelf.

 

Books and stuff

I love books, always have. 

Life without books?  Imagine that.

Proper books, that is, with paper pages, enticing covers, spines that crack as you reach the halfway point.  Kindle?  No competition.

Unsurpringly,  I find it nigh on impossible to walk past a book shop, book box or book pile and there isn't a week goes by when yet another volume is added to the stash.  Consequently, there are stacks in just about every room in the house (not the bathrooms because, well, water and yes, I've learned the hard way).

When we moved into this (then newly built) house almost thirty years ago, my collection had to undergo some radical pruning. Our previous homes had been older properties with fireplaces and alcoves just crying out for floor to ceiling shelves and so the book stash just grew and grew.  A bookseller in the market town up the road had agreed to buy many of those I'd reluctantly relegated to the 'Go' boxes.  The mister handed them over.  I sat in the car and cried.

Now, I rely on freestanding bookcases which limit the numbers so I've had to develop a habit of passing on books I've read and am unlikely to want to revisit.  (Theoretically, the  same applies to those I've not read and in all likelihood never will.)

Storage was recently supplemented with the purchase of a book trolley.  Well, a trolley;  it's not marketed specifically for books.  

And, courtesy of a birthday gift from the Boy, it's now a case of going into full-on librarian mode here.  Shush!

My book collection is, erm, eclectic, largely fiction with the current genre of choice being crime.  Scandi noir, preferably.  Actually, the more noir the better. But, as I say, I happily dip into other types of books, though that dipping rarely includes science fiction and never poetry.

There are no valuable first editions (as far as I'm aware) or rarities on the shelves but the books I've hung onto include some from when I was a tot (Monster Book for Tinies, for instance), some which were such a big part of my childhood (Jane Shaw's Susan series was my absolute favourite), some which are connected to special places and particular times (like 'The Well of Loneliness' and the first of many visits to New York  or 'The Collector' and a long ago summer spent on a Greek island), some which have been re-read so many times I could probably recite whole passages (Rebecca and Chocolat and The Otherwise Girl  to name but three).

According to Typepad, the current book at bedtime is my 54th this year.  Not bad going, I suppose, though I probably couldn't now tell you what many of them were about. 

Most books are purchased through the big online sellers, the local Waterstones, charity shops, the supermarket and those meet the author events which the town's library service are so good at organising (it's by attending the latter that I've built up a modest collection of signed copies)

Recently, I stumbled across Books That Matter, a feminist book subscription box.  Each month, a themed (and beautifully wrapped) box arrives containing one book by a female author, a bookmark and other treats from individual makers.  So far, I've received two of the boxes and been impressed with the contents.  October's theme is an exploration of the role of witchcraft in women's history and suffrage.  i can't wait for the postie's knock.

Of course, I've acquired a copy of Margaret Atwood's sequel to The Handmaid's Tale (a bargain from Tesco) and a copy of the latest in the Harry Hole series is waiting patiently on the TBR top shelf.  

Recommendations are always tricky; reading preference is intensely personal, and what appeals to me may well not appeal to others.  As my mother used to say, we're all different and that's a good thing. 

But I've compiled a short list of some of the standout books from those I've guzzled recently so, without further ado, and in no particular order, here they are:

The Lost Man.  I really rate Jane Harper as a writer and I've enjoyed all three of her novels but I think this is her best yet.  There's such a strong sense of place (the hostile environment that is the Australian outback), you almost feel the heat coming off the pages.  This is the story of a family, isolation, secrets and an unexplained death.  Go find a copy.

The Wolf Border. Rachel knows about wolves. She's spent the last 10 years living alongside them on an Idaho reservation but is tempted back to her native Cumbria to oversee a project which aims to reintroduce the animals to the UK countryside.  This is a story of re-wilding but it's more about family, relationships, decisions.

The Taking of Annie Thorne.  If you're a fan of Stephen Kng you'll probably enjoy this one.  Or maybe you won't (some readers have dismissed it as something of a rip-off).  It's more (gentle) horror than thriller and a story with two timelines.  One night, little Annie Thorne went missing.  Two days later, she returned.  But there was something very wrong.   Many years afterwards, is her brother about to find out what happened?

The Disappeared.  I'm  not a huge fan of dystopian fiction (not counting The Handmaid's Tale, of course) but I raced through this one.    The author, Amy Lord,  is a local blogger and I met her at one of the library events mentioned earlier in this post.  This is her first novel but it is well written and doesn't come across as such. It's a scarily plausible vision of a near future UK where the Authorisation Bureau is in charge and life is far from sweet.  This is a place where free thinking is dangerous,  where critics of the regime 'disappear', where books, unless on the approved list, are banned.  A thought provoking read.

Bitter Orange.  Frances is on her death bed, remembering a time in her life which was so different from what had gone before. Most of the action takes place in the summer of 1969 when, following the death of her overbearing mother, Frances moves into a dilapidated country house to catalogue the garden's architecture for the absent owner.  Peter, tasked with doing a similar job inside the house, and Cara, presumably his wife, are already in residence.  To the socially awkward Frances, they seem a glamorous couple and, to her surprise, they want to spend time with her.  And so she begins to be drawn into their relationship.  Yet all is not as it seems, the stories told don't quite add up and there is something very unsettling just below the surface.  This is a stunning book and I couldn't put it down.

Northern Lights.  Rather late to the party with this one, I know, but I'd dismissed it as not for me.  That is until I saw a trailer for the upcoming TV series.  A few pages in and I was all, 'yup, it's definitely not for me' and on the verge of tossing it.  But then the pace and the language shifted.  I was hooked.  This is a wonderful fantasy novel.  I mean, talking polar bears?  Enough said.    

Oh, yes, I love books, me. 

 

Lately in verbs

Marvelling at the profusion of butterflies attracted to the garden of perpetual autumn by the buddleias.  There have been so many years with few, if any, sightings of the colourful visitors and then, this summer, butterflies in droves.  A veritable snowstorm on a daily basis.

Supervising Bea Cat who had also clocked the preponderance of  butterflies.

Tending  a bee which couldn't fly but, for two days, traversed a vast (for a bee) area in the garden before eventually giving up the ghost.  He was given a decent burial.  No, you're a crybaby.

Baking a batch of jammy coconutty madeleines, a blast from the past, for my cousin's son who'd mentioned he just fancied some.  I don't possess dariole moulds so used paper cupcake liners and then simply upturned the cakes to decorate.

Viewing  (several times) the Knife Angel in the town centre.  Here for a month as part of a nationwide tour, the statue, constructed from 100,000 knives which had been seized or handed in at knife banks established in every police authority across the country, is a "monument against violence and aggression". 

Spending an afternoon with the family, complete with picnic, at Mount Grace Priory, just 20 minutes up the road.  Boasting the best preserved Carthusian monastery in England (it was founded in 1398 and functioned until 1539 when Henry VIII stuck his oar in), with manor house, gardens and reconstructed monk's cell, the site has been significantly developed since our last visit.  Whilst there, I bought plants and a book and took out a membership of English Heritage, so there's no excuse for not returning soonish.

Sensing change in the woods, noticing, despite record breaking temperatures, signs of summer on the wane and a new season waiting in the wings.  Nope, cannot lie, I can't wait for that moment, that first, unmistakable whiff of autumn in the air.

Wondering if there's anything more comforting than spending an afternoon in the company of a promising read and a trio of favourite chocs.

Making a wish on a suitably vegan chocolate and caramel cake (courtesy of the Boy) whilst the littlest shouted, 'Quick, it's melting!'.

Loving birthdays.

 

Seasonal goings on

I love Easter.  It's like Christmas without the stress.  And the wrapping.

It was all low key, traditional stuff here.  Nothing fancy. 

Of course, the book buying ban ended at the weekend and a trip to Waterstones resulted in a decent haul. Oh, joy.

There was also church and buns on Good Friday, baking aplenty (brownies, Simnel cake, scones, lemon sponge, Easter biscuits), giving chocolate eggs, receiving chocolate bunnies, not venturing too far. 

As I said, a lot like Christmas.

The weather was far too hot and squint inducing bright for me (no surprises there, then).  And I really cannot delight in sky rocketing temperatures after watching this, which had me in tears in the first five minutes.  Actually, I can't recall when we last had rainfall in these parts. 

But on Easter Sunday we needed to work up an appetite for all those bakes so, covered in a thick layer of factor 50 and leaving the car on the drive, off we toddled.

We live in an industrial town in the north east which isn't the prettiest (far from it) but we're just a stone's throw from woods, hedgerows, fields, animals. 

Not long into the walk,  we bumped into our ex-next door neighbour who recently moved with his family to a farmhouse just up the lane.  He invited us to have a look round.  I didn't need asking twice (no, you're a nosey parker).

Oh. my. goodness.  Serious house envy. There are stunning views from every single window (blinds and curtains unnecessary) and the extensive renovation work is clearly very high quality and in keeping with the nature of the setting (said ex-neighbour is an architect, which probably helps).  I had to be dragged out. 

Further on, past the dilapidated farm buildings, we stumbled across a little bluebell wood. And, a little further, lambs.

Then it was back home for a bout of seasonal overindulgence.

I love Rennies, me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lately in verbs

Life's been much of a muchness, lately, with (mostly) the usual activities punctuating the days and weeks. 

Bending, stretching and om-ing at the still continuing twice weekly (sometimes there are three) yoga sessions. I don't seem to get better at it but oh, I love it which is surely the point? 

Classes were spiced up last weekend with a yoga camp in town, comprising of lots of tasters, both of the yoga (aerial yoga?  I think not) and food variety, over two days. 

Venturing into the garden after the winter hiatus.  It's not a big plot by any means but it's a challenging one.  An odd shape with generally poor soil, it's overlooked (for over ten years we backed onto a field from which a housing estate sprang up) and a large part of it gets very little sunlight. 

Of course, with two cats and a Boo, it's regularly trampled by twelve paws of varying sizes.  But it's not completely barren out there and, if you look hard enough, there are signs of life and the odd spot of colour.  

Abstaining from book buying. I wanted to give up something meaningful for Lent and so, when the Girlie suggested not purchasing any books for the duration, I thought why not? How hard could that be?

Ooh, turns out it's a killer for someone who cannot walk past a book shop/stand/pile and who carries a notebook to jot down the titles of future reads/purchases. It has to be much harder than cutting out chocolate (I don't eat that much these days) or cake (no-one else here appreciates vegan cakes so I don't bake any) or biscuits (apart from the occasional vegan flapjack in Costa, I haven't indulged lately). 

The only other possible contender for abstention was porridge, but if I gave that up I'd very possibly expire (I eat a lot of it, at all times of the day. And night).

So books it was.

Is.  

Reading has still featured.  Of necessity, I've been dipping into the (substantial) TBR pile (one book was an accidental re-read which seems to happen rather a lot these days) and borrowing from the library.  I should do the latter more often but have a 'thing' about books which have been in many hands (I only borrow recent acquisitions).  I suppose I could wear rubber gloves whilst reading. 

Recommending, from the books read so far this year (links in the sidebar):

• Dark Pines (a small town in rural Sweden, a young journalist, a brutal murder)
• The Stranger Diaries (a chilling piece of Gothic literature seems to be being played out in real life)
• The Hunting Party (a group of old university friends meet up in the Scottish highlands.  One of them will die.  But which one?  And whodunnit?)
• Us Against You (the sequel to the equally excellent Beartown.  If you haven't already devoured these two, go binge read).

Attending a meet the author event, where Martin Edwards talked about the golden age of crime fiction and his latest novel. It's always interesting to hear how authors approach writing. 

Of course, all the afore mentioned Lenten fasting meant I was unable to add to the book stash from the stall in the corner but, fortunately, I'd bought one of his books (my first and the current book at bedtime which is proving to be very enjoyable) before the ban which was then duly signed on the night. 

Re-connecting with the knitting needles. I bought a kit from Etsy which, hopefully, will be transformed into something cuddly to include in someone's Easter parcel.  So far, so good, but I need to get a move on.

Searching for a new lunch venue.  The cafe in the town's modern art gallery, which was the perfect meeting place (the food was delicious and it was spacious enough to linger for hours) for lunch and catch ups with friends and family, was closed down suddenly (the local university currently manage the building and have 'plans'). 

I'm now on a mission to find an alternative that meets some exacting criteria.  The first on the list was a newly opened cafe in the recently renovated Town Hall.  An article in the local newspaper had promisingly likened it to Ottolenghi's.  Being a fan of Yotem and very familiar with his London eateries, I was optimistic.  The reality was disappointing.

The quest continues.

Sauntering in the Priory near the Boy's apartment before heading off for coffee and cake. I was half tempted to pick some wild garlic (it was everywhere) but couldn't decide what to do with it.   Plus, erm, dogs.

Venturing into the forest when the littlest paid a visit.  We stuck to the easy trail but intend to return soon to venture further.

 

 

 

 

Lately in verbs

Watching  (nay, binge watching) You on Netflix.  Apparently, I've read the Caroline Kepnes' book but can't for the life of me remember doing so.  Anyway, a bookshop, New York, yoga, what's not to like?  Well, maybe the psychopathic stalker.

Treating myself to a piece of art.  A teeny weeny painting measuirng just 2 ins.  A wintry scene, naturally.  Sweet, yes?

Reading from the book pile (added to after visits to the charity shop and Waterstones).  The current book at bedtime (keeping me on my toes as I try to keep up with who's who or rather who's in who) is number 6 of 2019.  According to the sidebar, I read 42 books last year.  I was thinking of setting a reading target for 2019 but, you know what,  it ain't a competition. 

Enjoying a Burns Night supper (with peas alongside the neeps and tatties because there has to be something green on the plate) a day late.  There's not a drop of Scottish blood in either of us (as far as we know) but I'm rather partial to a homemade vegan haggis.

Familiarising myself (or at least attempting to) with the bells and whistles of the new car.  At the end of last year, the mister made the decision to stop driving (as you may remember, he has his problems which are currently being further investigated).  His tank of a vehicle was too big, my cute runaround too small so, taking a leaf out of Goldilocks' book,  we went for something in between.....ish. We're also familiarising ourselves with the workings of the local bus service as I'd prefer not to embark on a new career as full time taxi driver.  Let's just say one of us is faring better at this than the other but it's early days.

Testing the car's fancy hill start assist system on an incline at the coast.  I think I prefer a good old hand brake.

Baking brown sugar chocolate chip cookies because there were no eggs for a cake and the biscuit tin was empty.

Aching in body parts I didn't know I still had after a 7 week (enforced) absence away from the yoga mat.  

Hatching travel plans (nothing too adventurous).

Spotting a clump of snowdrops in the front garden.  Seeing them always reminds me of the time I was a 10 year old in Mrs Whitehouse's class in junior school and we planted snowdrop bulbs.  I got to take the bowl (it was green) home for the Christmas holidays which my dad advised would be happiest in the cool of the musty pantry where he stored the boxes of Daz and Oxydol washing powder for our shop.  Nothing emerged from the compost, which I remember was so disappointing as we'd made a chart to plot the progress of growth.  

Proving I wasn't to blame for the snowdrop non-show with a pot of soon-to-be crocuses.  Just call me the corm whisperer.

Caffeinating.  Always.

Appreciating quite a lot.

 

 

 

 

 

Posh nosh and other stuff

People who know me are very well aware that one of my favourite activities is to indulge in a proper afternoon tea.  So, a few weeks ago, I met up with my Girlie in London and off we went to Claridges to sample their vegan and vegetarian versions.  'Are you celebrating a special occasion?', asked our waiter. 'No', says I, 'Just, erm, life.'  Did we enjoy it?  You bet.  Every last morsel.

Last week saw a return to the capital for a stay of couple of days, in the company of the Boy this time.  Our base was a hotel on Russell Square (highly recommended) but the main purpose of the visit was to have lunch (again, one vegan, one vegetarian) at The Ritz, a first foray into the world of Michelin starred food for us both. 

Honestly? I had no idea a plant based meal could be so beautifully presented and, at the risk of sounding a tad MasterChef-y,  packed with layers of flavour (I think I now understand what Marcus Wareing bangs on about).  It really was outstanding, from the teeny tiny crisp amuse bouche to the final plates of melt in the mouth 'frivolities'.

Amuse bouche

Salt baked beetroot with pickled blackberries and walnuts

Cauliflower risotto with wild herbs and tonka

A shiny shiny chocolate and banana delice 

The Boy's rum baba

Frivolities

The remainder of the time was spent pounding the pavements, visiting the Charles Dickens museum, browsing the stalls at Borough market, perusing book displays (and buying this), enjoying a performance at the Prince Edward theatre, devouring a sticky rum and pineapple doughnut (me) and a pastel de nata (him), and reliving That Lunch.

 

 

 

 

I love London, me.

 

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.