love those cupcakes

Ups and...

 ....well, more ups.

Last Sunday saw the start of Stage 3 of the Tour de Yorkshire race in our unusually spic and span town and, despite wet and gloomy weather, people and dogs turned out along the route to cheer the participants.  There was such a good atmosphere as we waited (our local bobbies demonstrated their more humorous side) and eventually the helicopter heralding the arrival of the cyclists hovered overhead.  Like Christmas, they were no sooner here than they were gone ( I was so busy faffing with the camera and making sure I didn't fall off the kerb  I didn't actually see anything) and heading daleswards whilst we toddled off to see if we could spot ourselves on the telly and to eat pizzas.  

The weather picked up during the week and the garden beckoned.  The plot at the back of the house and garage is far from ideal; it's small, oddly shaped, faces the wrong direction and you could throw pots with the soil (that reminds me,  I need a new mug or two). There are far too many gaps (plants just seem to give up the ghost here), there's a permanent covering of twigs (I blame the buddleia which just might be enjoying it's last season) and leaves (I have no idea what to blame for this; at the moment a photinia is shedding its red foliage).   But, as there are no plans for relocating, we're stuck with it so I'll continue the dig, plant, wail cycle and keep hoping for a transformation.  At least the Japanese cherry in the front garden is happy and currently displaying peak blooming gorgeousness before the snow globe effect as the blossoms fall. 

We don't use our garage for the purpose it was designed.  Oh no, we like to fill it (and it's a big space) with rubbish. Actually, it's not all trash. My mum's peg basket complete with dolly pegs is in there, as is the wooden sledge the mister made many years ago and which seemed to spark a lengthy period of snow free winters, along with Aunty's sewing machine and the vacuum cleaner she bought and then promptly forgot about.  As we were taking the garden table and chairs to the recycling centre one day, we took the opportunity to completely fill the car boot, amidst mutterings of the what the hell is that and I'm not looking inside there variety, with stuff from the garage.  I'd have to say it doesn't look any less cluttered but it's a start and every little helps, as they say. 

Yesterday, the Boy and I took ourselves off to London for no other reason than it seemed a very good idea.  There was no plan either other than lunch in Ottolenghi (which, as always, was delicious but just how did they know that I was the vegan?) and it was a case of walking here and there, wherever the fancy took us.   Posh chocolates and several other treats may have been purchased en route because the proceeds from an unexpected cheque through the letterbox were demanding to be spent and, anyway, why not.  Whilst we were doing all that capital city wandering, news came through of our local football team's (the mister is a lifelong supporter) promotion to the big boys league (yep, they're finally going up) so, of course, we paused to celebrate with champagne mojitos.

Inside the house, the cleaning inspection progressed.  The standards expected were high.  I think we passed.

 

Waiting game

The mister and Boo are out walking in Farndale with a couple of friends.   All that exercise will no doubt require an hour or two recuperating in the pub.  Boo does like his pub visits, by all accounts.

I've been stuck at home all day, waiting for two replacment sofas to be delivered (it's sod's law ours will be the last drop off on the list).  The originals were bought way back in June last year but one was found to be damaged.  There have since been two attempts at repair but the manufacturer couldn't match the fabric.  Two new sofas were eventually agreed and we've been anticipating their arrival for months.  

I'm not used to spending whole days at home on my tod.  I've vacuumed (including the parts usually not reached) and dusted, baked and menu planned, pandered to the cats' demands, read my book and discovered the new specs make my eyes go funny.  Which isn't at all funny considering how much they cost.  So they'll be going back to the opticians just as soon as I cease to be confined to barracks. 

I've been using the mister's coffee mug in his absence.  

Just because.......

 

 

Not at all cheesy*

Joining in with Littlegreenshed's 'Nature in the Home' series. 

I bought this cheerful little primula when I dropped off a box of cupcakes for a Spring fair (which ended up being cancelled due to adverse weather conditions) at the local RSPCA animal centre last weekend.  

The creme egg chicken alongside it was made at the WI group earlier this week. 

There was a prize for the best one.  

I didn't win. 

I know, I know. 

I was robbed.

 

*Have to admit to enjoying an occasional snack of the other Primula squeezed on Ritz crackers.

 

Lately I've been.......

• Visiting the cinema in the afternoon, eating a bag of Revels and watching this.  Not for everyone, it is Tarantino (have to say I am a fan) after all, but, even with mixed reviews about his treatment of the subject matter, there's no denying the brilliant soundtrack and some excellent performances.

• Baking banana/choc chip/walnut topped muffins (my choice)

 

and apple and sultana pie (his choice).

 

• Filling a new stripey jug (from Sainsbury's) with daffs from the market.

 

• Looking for house refreshing ideas in a couple of new reads.

 

•  Enjoying the early evening view from our living room.

 

• Planning the trip of a lifetime.  The cost will be astronomical but if it comes off it will be one massive dream come true.

 

A whodunnit

The crime scene

Our living room.  Contains the usual stuff, nothing flash but comfortable.

 

The crime

Criminal damage.

 

The victim

Our cost us quite a bit when we bought it armchair.  Lives in a corner of the room looking out into the garden, tucked behind one of the sofas. About 13 years old.  In generally good nick.  Until now.

 

The evidence

 

The witnesses

"I swear it wasn't me".

 

"Nope, didn't see a thing".

 

The accused

Goes by the name of Bea. Three year old tabby.  Looks like butter wouldn't melt.  Has extremely sharp claws but categorically refuses to use a scratching post.  Also has form:  criminal damage to a stair carpet and wanton carving of numerous spindles on the staircase, both of which have only just been replaced (the carpet) and repaired (the spindles).  And she ripped a shirt.  Whilst I was wearing it.  Oh yes, and she's been found guilty of GBH to quite a few butterflies.  Has exercised the right to remain silent throughout the investigation, apart from mewling when she wants feeding/letting out/letting in, but this incident has all the hallmarks of her MO. 

 

 The verdict

Unanimous.  Guilty. 

 

The sentence

For her:  non custodial with a requirement to undertake some sort of aversion/diversion therapy.  Any suggestions?

For us:  spending our savings on new seating.  But only when the furniture scratching stops.

 ****

One of my Christmas presents was this very funny book.  Well, funny if you live with/understand/love cats.  This poem could have been composed by our resident delinquent :

 

SCRATCH

Scratch scratch scratch

Scratch scratch scratch

Scratch scratch

Scratch

 

There

It is done

Now gaze upon your sofa leg

And see an exact replica of Rodin's The Thinker

I mean, if you look at it at just the right angle

 

Anyway, onto my next masterpiece -

Turning your curtains into confetti

 

Really, I should have

my own gallery show

 

 

A walk and a dance in the park

Boo usually gets his daily exercise in the little park close to our house.  But, as it was ages since we'd last visited, we decided to treat him to a run around the much larger Stewart Park (though I don't know anyone round here who doesn't call it Stewarts Park) which is also in walking distance for the more energetic.  (Needless to say, we drove.)

It has lots to offer: two lakes, a pets corner with deer, highland cattle, llamas, rabbits and goats, woodland areas, visitor and education centres, totem poles and a couple of decent-ish cafes.

The park has an interesting history.  Local-boy-done-good, Captain James Cook was born in a cottage on the site (there was an entire village at that time) and a commemorative urn marks the spot on which it's believed to have stood. 

The land was first landscaped when it was owned by one of industrial Middlesbrough's founding fathers, Henry Bolckow.  A Victorian ironmaster and our first elected Mayor and first Liberal MP, he built an impressive looking home, Marton Hall, in the 1860's.

The Hall and grounds were eventually given to the town for the benefit of local residents, becoming a public park in 1928.  The Hall itself, neglected and falling into disrepair, remained until 1960 when, sadly, local councillors made the decision to demolish it after being advised by the Borough Engineer that it was of "no historic or architectural value".  Demolition had started when it was completely destroyed by a fire.

I bought this postcard of the Hall on eBay.  All that now remains are the steps which lead up from the garden (and which now lead to the Captain Cook Birthplace Museum) and the colonnade to the right.  Some of the estate buildings survived and have been restored in the last year along with a Victorian walled garden (which we stumbled across, only to be told off for going where we shouldn't).

Every summer, until the 1970's, the park was the venue for a big country dancing event when every junior school in the town would send a group of pupils to dance together on the grass.  Mine was an all girls school (I'm not sure if the all boys schools joined in) and my turn to dance came the summer I turned 11.

In the lead up to the event we had country dancing lessons (every Friday afternoon with Mrs Whitehouse) where we practiced the Gay Gordons, Circassian Circle, Dashing White Sergeant and some dance that I remember involved a lot of clapping and slapping of thighs. 

On the big day, my dad took me to the park and managed to take a couple of blurry pictures.

Here I am on the right, dancing with my friend, Caroline, in her gorgeous flowery dress with shocking pink cummerbund.

 

I don't think I've do-si-do'ed since.

 

Into January

And so far, so.......samey.  Plus, I haven't made any of my usual lose weight/read more/Google less New Year's resolutions though I'm aiming to make a few changes in the year ahead.  

One thing I learned in the lead up to the festivities is that the housework doesn't do itself (nor does anyone else do it, nor can you continue to ignore it after a point) and leaving it all for one mahoosive clean-up (alongside all of the shopping and present wrapping and cooking and baking) is one sure way to give you back ache and put you off your Christmas dinner. 

So I'm trying to do a bit each day.  Thus far it's working (and I find I rather like admiring the results of the vacuuming and duster flicking) though I'm very aware we're only five days in and my enthusiasm does have a tendency to wane rather too quickly (as evidenced by the numerous reminders around the house of many an unfinished project). 

Another, slightly more challenging, change I want to make this year is letting go - of stuff (of which there is still far too much  here), of past decisions, actions and conversations I can do nothing about.  You have no idea how much I replay in my head (even from years and years ago), how much I analyse, how much I think I could have done or said differently.  Bonkers, I know.  And I'm not at all sure how I'm going to achieve this change.  One of my friends thinks I should try hypnosis ("look into my eyes, look into my eyes, the eyes, the eyes, not around the eyes, don't look around my eyes, look into my eyes, you're under").  I think not. 

We went for lunch at the art gallery in town today, only to find the cafe has changed ownership.  The new menu doesn't impress at all (today's special was corned beef pie) and the quality of what we ended up with (soup, lukewarm at that) was very poor.  We had to eat chocolate tree decorations (yes, really) once we were home to get rid of the after taste. 

At least the sun was shining on the drive there and I managed to get the first snap this year of my favourite local landmark.

 

On the defensive

 
My home town's been written about in The New York Times.

Not in a good way.

I feel I should point out that the photographs in the article are not really representative. Regarding the first one (and, really, who else goes there?), as some bright spark here said, two steps to the side and the photographer would have been in the river.  The second is from a part of town that's being demolished and rebuilt.

At least there was something positive in yesterday's budget and the area is to be an Enterprise Zone which might attract new business and industry and help fill a gap that the declining iron and steel and chemical industries have left.

Middlesbrough does have its problems, we're all agreed on that. I worked in social work for many years and understand the challenges some people live with.

It's certainly not the prettiest of towns, being highly urbanised, but that's against a backdrop of the Cleveland Hills and with both coast and countryside just a whisker away.

Oh yes, and we talk funny here. 

But I'm very fond of this place I call home.  I've lived and worked here all my life, apart from three years in leafy Warwickshire when I was at university, and I'll probably stay here.  (Years ago, my cousins emigrated to the American mid west after their dad, my uncle, was invited to spread his steelmaking expertise.  They've told me they spent months looking out of the window in their apartment, wishing for nothing more than a bus with "Middlesbrough" on the front to turn up).

I'm not alone in wanting to spread the love and there are some who believe we should be granted city status.

Now please excuse me as I join my fellow Smoggies in dodging all the pregnant teens to rummage for food in bins.

As if.

 

This and that

The Gorgeous Girlie was home at the weekend and on Saturday we decided to visit the Living North Christmas Fair up the road in Co. Durham.  I thought the entrance fees (£21 for three adults) were a bit steep for what was essentially a shuffle round a crowded and overheated marquee.  Admittedly, there was a whole range of stuff for sale (a pillow that's also a pet, anyone?) though the most tempting goodies were way too expensive for what they were so we came away with nothing bar the freebie carrier bag. So, no ticks on the shopping list yet.

That afternoon ended with another taste of Christmas - a Starbuck's gingerbread latte.  I missed out on these last year, being temporarily housebound, but they're as delicious as I remembered and a sure sign that the festive season is just around the corner. (Seriously, I could become addicted to these).

Sunday night was spent in Newcastle in the company of Peter Kay, courtesy of a couple  of tickets we were given as Christmas presents last year. He was a good turn, as we say in these parts, and there was a spectacular music finale which had everyone on their feet, us included. (Photography wasn't allowed, so no pictures from the event).

On a completely different note, after reading about the benefits of spelt, I had a go at baking a batch of spelt bread rolls. The recipe I used involved no kneading and leaving the mixture in the fridge overnight. (According to The Telegraph's Rose Prince, "spelt, an ancient wheat grain, reacts quickly to yeast and bread can be made without kneading or proving"). The rolls didn't rise as much as bread made from usual flour but once baked they looked, well, like rolls and had a nice crust.  Unfortunately, it was impossible to remove them from the baking trays so no prizes for guessing where they ended up (after a soaking in the kitchen sink).   Undeterred, I had another go, a loaf this time, using a different recipe and the "fast" option in the bread machine. This produced a much better result, one we could actually eat, and which received a thumbs up  from the tasters here.

Driving back from work yesterday, and with camera to hand, I just had to pull over in the lane near home to snap a local landmark, looking glorious in the afternoon sun. 

Sometimes it's hard to believe I live in the town that almost always tops the "worst place for...." lists.

End of an era

We're used to living alongside heavy industry here in Teesside.  It's our heritage.  Shipbuilding, iron and steel, chemicals.  We're not called "Smoggies" for nothing and we're used to the odd brickbat being hurled our way.   Yet my home town was renowned internationally for its steel industry, and what was produced here has been used in the building of many well known structures within the UK and across the world.  The Sydney Harbour Bridge bears the legend "Made in Middlesbrough".  More recently, local steel made its way to  New York for the reconstruction of the World Trade Centre. 

A relatively new town, Middlesbrough's growth only started after the discovery of ironstone in the surrounding hills in 1850.  Consequently, most local people have their roots elsewhere.  My dad's grandparents came from south Wales and my mother's family moved north from the midlands, whilst the Husband's grandfather had been a tin miner in Cornwall.  All of them were drawn here because of the guarantee of work and a future in iron and then steel production, and Middlesbrough was to become one of the country's fastest growing towns.

Almost every family around here has some connection to the steel industry and each has its own memories and stories to tell.  When my dad left the army he was employed as a steel plate layer until he was involved in an accident at work (I was a baby at the time), which left him permanently disabled.  My father in law started work at 14 as a blast furnaceman's helper, ending his working life some 50 years later as blast furnace foreman.  My brother worked in the offices of what had become British Steel until he was faced with redundancy.  Most of my uncles were steel workers, one of them losing his life to an industrial disease.  Aged 33, my cousin's husband was killed in an explosion whilst working his shift at the steel plant.  Clearly, working in the industry does not come without significant personal risk.

But all of that history came to an end on Friday when the last blast furnace was shut down and steel production on Teesside ceased. 

It was a sad day. 

For us all.