love those cupcakes

Where I ramble on about not much at all

Where does the time go?

No idea, is the short answer. 

It's not the case that my days are filled with excitement and fun activities, quite the opposite.  But I'm still here, still breathing, a year older (though sadly no wiser) and somewhat surprised that we're in the last quarter of the year.  Tempus certainly fugits.

Three of us celebrated my birthday (well, the mister wasn't in a particularly celebratory mood but freshly picked flowers, cards and gifts more than made up for all the truculence).  There was a picnic and meander round Mount Grace Priory, dinner in a new to us restaurant with a great vegan menu and the day ended with enormous slices of Boy-made chocolate cake.  

I developed a cough and lost my voice.  For almost a week.  Boo and the cats cheered.  When it returned,  I sounded like a pubescent boy, switching from bass to soprano like nobody's business.  Of course, I did the sensible thing and booked myself in for a covid test which happily proved negative. 

The test centre was just down the road.  Nevertheless, it was a little solo jaunt (which happen so infrequently these days) and I made the most of it.  Hair was washed and eye liner and lipstick applied.  Staff at the centre were so friendly and we had a good old chinwag.  I really enjoyed myself and wouldn't be at all surprised if I received an invitation to their Christmas night out. 

The eucalyptus tree in the back garden was finally chopped down.   It was an all day job which provided a bit of outdoor theatre for people round about and culminated with an eye watering invoice for us.  A big part of me was sorry to see it go but it had outgrown its space (a bit of an understatement) and the kitchen is now somewhat lighter (especially when the previously obscured security light on a neighbouring house wall flashes on and off continuously through the night).  

Then the fish died.  Turns out the sawdust from all of that chopping down, which floated into the pond, oozed eucalyptus oil which I (and the tree surgeon) only discovered afterwards is highly toxic to fish.  I tried my damnedest throughout that night to save them as they gasped their last.  It was truly harrowing.  I couldn't stop crying and I still feel guilty. 

A couple of neighbours, who I didn't know, stepped in and spent two days emptying and cleaning the pond and disposing of the bodies (the fish were koi carp so rather large).  Amazing.   

I've since tinkered with the idea of turning it into a wildlife pond but recognise it's one responsibility I can probably well do without given the situation here.  So, next year (the landscapers are fully booked until spring) it's going to be filled in and the area paved.  Or something.

I had a go at making granola, though rather wish I hadn't.  It tastes so much better than the shop bought stuff and I can't seem to resist grabbing a handful from the jar whenever I pass it. 

The granola making is part of the challenge I've set myself to eat 30 different plants a week, which apparently is good for gut health and a lot easier to achieve than you might think as herbs, grains, seeds, nuts and beans all count.  Suppers of late have become rather green.  And crunchy.

A much needed haircut was made possible by the Boy working from our dining table for a day.   I was on the verge of hacking away with the dressmaking shears but common sense prevailed (actually, it was more a case of misplacing the shears).   Roots have now been attended to and about 4 inches chopped off the back (for some strange reason my hair grows in a V shape).  Interestingly, I go to the same hairdresser as a Dragon from the Den who is now a competitor on Strictly.  We haven't rubbed shoulders yet but I did get to meet her best friend.

Books have been read.  Standouts were The Kingdom,  Plainsong, Tall Bones, Unsettled Ground (links in the sidebar).  In preparation for Hallowe'en reading, I've ordered this which sounds promisingly chilling.  I might also add this to the pile.

Autumn arrived, a significant marker as we head towards my favourite season, winter.  Nights are drawing in (or as my dad used to say, it's getting late early) and candles are being lit. I'm enjoying the changing colour palette and the slightly cooler temperatures, though grateful that laundry can still be dried on the washing line.

The garden is crying out for a big tidy up but the plan is to chip away at the various tasks rather than tackling everything in one go. 

Let's just see how that goes.

 

Filling in the gaps

I've had to look through the pictures in the camera to recall what I've been up to since the last blog post.

Not a lot, it turns out.

Unsurprisingly, the mister's dementia has been steadily progressing and we've had a couple of hairy/scary incidents, since when there has been a raft of professionals through the door.  I've never done so much cleaning and tidying away.  And talking.  Well, you've got to get conversation where you can.

The still five year old and oh so much taller littlest came up for the day which meant a wander round the Priory followed by drinks and cakes in an actual coffee shop (I was wearing my big girl pants and sat inside amongst, wait for it, Other People) before coming back here to play the poo game.  I'm still finding little plastic turds under the furniture.

In the car on his way home, littlest remarked to his mum,  'I love going to Granny's.  I like the people there.'   Hopefully he was referring to us.

As we're so homebound I've been trying to use the time to crack on with some boring but necessary house jobs. 

The garage doors have been replaced.  No bells, no whistles,  but they look smart and actually open and close without posing serious threat to life and limb.  Now to tackle what's behind the garage doors.

The back garden has had a bit of makeover.  The ivy that was suffocating the garage has been removed, the grassed area re-turfed, shrubs cut back and the slate chippings replaced with gravel.  It's not award winning but it is an improvement. 

We're still waiting for the pond to be deep cleaned.  There are four remaining fish in there though I was convinced I'd accidentally killed them off after feeding them in very low temperatures earlier in the year.   I did order some medicine for them once I realised so maybe it did the trick.  Who knew fish get tummy ache?

The ginormous eucalyptus is being chopped down in a couple of weeks.  That's going to be an all-day job involving some serious kit.  The tree is a huge garden feature (it's probably also a local landmark) but I won't be sorry to see the last of the dead leaves which, at this time of year, it sheds in wagonloads.  Our neighbours are delighted.  I have yet to break the news to the pigeons.

The garden borders and pots have been springing to life, which is always a surprise to me as this isn't the easiest of plots in terms of shape, light levels and quality of soil.  And, of course, there's my hit and miss garden care. 

The tulips and narcissi have just finished.  Predictably, I planted them extremely late and wasn't at all hopeful.  And now it's the turn of the roses, my summer favourites.  I've added another one, Emily Bronte, because there's no such thing as too many roses.  The greenfly agree.

Lunches out with friends aren't possible at the moment (the mister is on the waiting list for a place at a day centre so, at some point, I'll have some free time to get out and about).  But, accompanied by the Boy, we decided to try a recently renovated eating venue, lured (well, I was) by the vegan menu.  Unfortunately, it  was closed that day but we admired the fountain and then stopped off for compensatory takeaway coffee and crisps on the way home.

When I was a little girl, my parents used to close their shop for a couple of hours on Monday afternoons during the warmer months and my dad would drive my mum round the countryside whilst she caught up on her Woman and Woman's Own reading, with a bag of Callard and Bowser toffees on the side. 

Seems I've turned into my dad, though our occasional little jaunts are sans the magazines and confectionery.  On one such outing the other day, I'd planned to park up by the river so we could have a saunter but then realised the mister was still wearing his slippers.  Next time.

Books are still a big part of life though reading them is a slow process.  It's just so hard to stay focused.  Consequently, the TBR piles are multiplying.  I dust them occasionally.  And take pictures.

A recent purchase was a copy of Hold Still (plus a copy for the littlest) as a memento (is that the right word?) of these strange pandemic times.  Some of the photographs say so much and made me blub (to be honest, there's not much that doesn't).

I'm still hacking away at my fringe with the dressmaking shears.  No idea why it grows faster than the rest of the hair on my head.  My hairdresser has offered to come to the house but I can't quite visualise him in our bathroom.

I've also given the dog a shampoo and cut which was later improved on when he was spending time with the vet under general anaesthetic ('We've also trimmed his ears and his trousers'). 

Poor lad (the dog, not the vet) has been having problems with his knees which we were hopeful could be fixed with surgery.  But that's out of the question now as he's been diagnosed with kidney disease.   

Cue the buying of various supplements.  Because I have to feel I'm doing something to help.  Cue Boo spitting out various capsules.  Because he has to have the last word.  Dogs, eh?

Like I said, not much has been happening here, certainly nothing exciting.  So, what next?   

Well, I'm gearing up to a visit to the car wash, the first in over 12 months. 

It'll be quite the occasion.

The big question is, what shall I wear?

 

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?

 

So far so autumn

Pumpkin spice lattes.  My coffee intake has been seriously reduced of late (I've finally admitted that ten cups a day is probably excessive) but there's now a vegan version of the seasonal beverage at Starbucks and denial was never my strong suit. 

Food. Is there anything more comforting than seeing a pile of chopped roots in readiness for a soup, a dhal, a stew?  The veg man and his daughter have returned to their autumn and winter only pitch at the farmers market and I bought a bagful of soil covered delights for just a couple of quid.  Every meal we've eaten recently has been taken from HFW's Much More Veg, a vegan recipe book which is spicing up the menus here very nicely.  

Woollies.  It's not yet time for the beloved polo neck sweaters (I'd wear these all year round if I could) but other knits have come out of storage and a couple of new ones purchased. My mum loved a cardi.  I've turned into my mum.

Candles.  I never burn candles during the summer months but, once the nights start drawing in, the house is transformed into a fragrant fire risk.  This vegan range is a current favourite.

 Leaves.  Yes, I know I bemoan the constant, year round dropped leafage in our garden but oh, I can't get enough of those piles of autumnal crunchiness. 

 

The telly.  Those panto stalwarts Strictly, Bake Off and The Apprentice have been joined this autumn by some cracking series: Killing Eve (she's a tinker, that Villanelle), Vanity Fair (I've never read the book and have only a vague idea of the story which might be an advantage) and The Mighty Redcar (of special interest as the town is just down the road from here).

Halloween.  The pumpkin has been purchased (you have to move quickly to nab a half decent specimen, I've learned) and is now sitting in the garage awaiting some judicial slashing.   And speaking of slashing, the film releases later this month and I. can't. wait. 

Reading. Once the mammoth A Little Life is finally finished (and the last page can't come soon enough, it's so depressingly miserable), there's yet another stack of charity shop finds to dip into.

 I love autumn, me.

Filling in the gaps

July chez nous was dominated by house renovations.  Our existing bathroom and shower room weren't so bad but a couple of bits needed replacing (a bit like me) so we decided to go the whole hog and blitz the lot. 

It's taken almost a month tor the work to be completed, during which time I've been confined to barracks on tea making, question answering and decision making duties.  I found myself quietly (mostly) crawling the walls with cabin fever yet again, but this time to the sounds of songs of the 80s, sung very loudly and somewhat less than pitch perfect, with a cocker spaniel providing backing vocals.

But it's finished and we now have a swish wet room and a pristinely white bathroom, which just need a few faffy bits adding here and there to complete the look.  So far, I'm managing to keep everything sparklingly clean with the help of a couple of packs of e-cloths (thanks to the couple of bloggers for introducing me to these) and forcing everyone else to use the facilties elsewhere (just kidding....maybe).  But who knows how long until I throw the e-cloth in?  All bets are off.

July is the Boy's birthday month and we celebrated at Pizza Express (his choice) and, of course, with cake.  This year's offering was a chocolate and salted caramel popcorn creation which involved a first, and possibly last, attempt at Swiss meringue buttercream (life's too short for all that whisking).  It wasn't perfect (the chocolate sponge was moist but strangely crumbly), I couldn't taste it (made with several blocks of butter, this was the opposite of vegan) but it was well received, the candles were blown out as a wish was made and every last crumb disappeared.

Books have been featuring as usual, despite all the upheaval of bathroom works.  Highlights were  I Remember You, a spooky tale, from Iceland's queen of crime fiction, about three friends who set out to spend a week renovating a dilapidated property in a remote abandoned village.  Meanwhile, the police are drawn into revisiting the cases of a couple of missing children.  I found Norah Webster , which has been sitting on the book pile for quite a while, more enjoyable than the earlier Brooklyn.  Norah, a mother of four, is newly widowed and this is the story of her adjustment to life without her husband in a small Irish town in the late 1960s.  The Night Visitor is a claustrophobic tale.  Two women, one a writer and respected historian, the other an older, socially awkward housekeeper, and a big. fat. lie.

A  hefty book at over 700 pages, A Little Life has been described by many reviewers as a moving, tear inducing, all consuming read and it's a book I've been avoiding.  The time is now right.  I'm going in.

Boo is still not fully recovered from his recent major surgery and appears to have, erm, sprung a leak (not bladder related, if you were wondering).  The vet is puzzled and consulting with a colleague, whilst in the meantime Boo, to his embarrassment, is wearing nappies.

The littlest and his mama paid us a visit one weekend so, armed with a picnic and Monkey, off we went to the RSPB reserve at Saltholme.  I absolutely love this place, with its wide open spaces, wetlands, industrial backdrop and reminders of the town's heritage.  

 

I've fallen out with all things culinary and proper meals have been few and far between here lately.  Following the latest trip to the supermarket, dinner has turned decidedly pastel.  And very sweet.  Classy, no?

As for the continuing heatwave, I'm saying nowt.

Chugging along

The central library in town is a Carnegie library, in operation since 1912 and a familiar, if not particularly striking, building for most locals. 

Whilst the surrounding area has changed beyond recognition (the terraced streets and corner shops have long since gone, the little park complete with bandstand has been paved over,  the police station is now a car park, MIMA is next door in all it's glass fronted glory and there are the controversial plans to build five office blocks round the corner), the library has been quietly chugging along quite nicely, thank you very much. 

Some visitors use the bank of computers, some go in for a sit down and a warm, some, like me, browse the books and the noticeboards. 

The council, in its wisdom (and I use that term very loosely) has decided the library is 'intimidating'.  Big changes of an undisclosed nature have been announced.   Change here usually means demolition.  I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried. 

The reference library is housed on the first floor, the place I used to hang around outside every week all those years ago, waiting to meet my friend who had a Saturday job there, and now the perfect spot for quiet reading or writing or attending one of the literary events library staff are so good at organising.  

One Saturday more recently, I was lucky to nab a ticket to see my favourite band, fellow Teessiders Cattle and Cane (have a listen here), who were performing an acoustic set.  Great music amongst shelf after shelf of books.  How perfect is that? 

Of course, books are an ever present feature at home.  (I'd had another good clear-out but then, looking in the loft for suitable items for the local Scout group's annual jumble sale, I was reunited with a huge box of forgotten but much loved reads.  I'm still trying to find space for them.)

Jane Casey's The Kill is part of the DC Maeve Kerrigan crime series and is a well paced police procedural.  A killer is at large in London.  The body count is mounting and someone clearly has a grudge against coppers.  I gobbled this one up. 

House of Spines has been hailed as a chilling contemporary gothic and is a book I've been itching to get stuck into.  Ran McGhie, a young writer with no immediate family and a history of mental illness,  inherits a mansion on the outskirts of Glasgow from a relative he'd not only never met but didn't know existed.  The vast house comes with certain conditions but Ran, struggling to keep his head above water, thanks his lucky stars and quickly moves in.  But all is not as it seems and Newton Hall begins to whisper its secrets.  The novel is reminiscent of Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House and Sarah Waters' The Little Stranger, with a smidgeon of Henry James' The Turn of the Screw  but, for me (yes, I know I'm in the minority), it was disappointing.  The annoying printing errors probably didn't help.

The current TBR pile is a mix of borrowed and purchased from Waterstones (well, who can resist a buy one, get one half price offer?).

The garden is well and truly in autumnal mode, slowing down but still providing some welcome splashes of colour.   There's an accumulation of spring bulbs awaiting planting.  It's on the to do list but, given last year's are still languishing in a pile in the shed, they may be in for a lengthy wait.

The oven has been working hard so far this month. I've been working similarly hard to keep it clean and could have done without the tomato and mozzarella tart overflowing spectacularly whilst cooking. 

Simple bakes (lemon drizzle cake, brownies, cheese and chive scones) are keeping the other two here happy (a vegan ginger cake just for me ended up in the bin, it was so inedibly damp) whilst the Boy has been turning his hand to all things filo (me, I just buy the ready-made stuff). 

He mentioned he was planning to have a crack at baking a seasonal loaf and I had pictures in my head of a crusty golden wheatsheaf, complete with cute bread mouse.  You know the ones.

We were presented with.....

Of course, the Harvest Tarantula.  

 

Positively autumnal

It's that time of year when the light changes, the temperature drops (the colder the better for me), the days shorten (or, as my dad used to say, it gets late early), the colours glow, and Mother Nature begins the process of hunkering down.        

Cooler weather cooking and baking is so much easier and so much more satisfying.  Comfort food. Platefuls of good old stodge. Yorkshire puds, mashed potatoes, hearty bean stews, dumplings, creamy dhals, fruity sponges, custard.  Just typing the words makes me feel a whole lot better.

Suddenly, in my year round uniform of black jeans, long sleeved shirts, military boots, I'm wearing season appropriate clothes. And then there's the multitude of polo neck sweaters (my absolute favourites), jackets, coats, hats and scarves waiting patiently in the wings.  

Growing up in a slum clearance area (I didn't know it at the time, it was just home), gardens, trees and wildlife didn't form a daily backdrop to the changing seasons (there was that memorable year when an owl took up residence on the street light outside the butcher's shop). The nature table in a corner of the classroom in junior school, carefully maintained by the always inspiring Mrs Whitehouse, was the closest many of us ever got to conkers, fir cones, feathers that hadn't come from a pigeon, nests and colourful leaves as big as hands. Now, much to the Boo's delight, we're lucky to live right on the doorstep of woodland trails, just there for the autumnal walking (and caterpillar spotting).

Pumpkins didn't feature at all in my childhood.  I didn't know they existed outside the pages of a favourite book, where one was magically turned into a glass coach.  These days, cans of pumpkin puree are readily available in the supermarkets and easily turned into a fragrantly spiced and fruited loaf. (I used mostly wholemeal flour, added sultanas and walnuts, omitted the banana and created a mix of cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice and ginger.)   

Coffee is always my hot beverage of choice.  But autumn marks the reappearance of gingerbread syrup flavoured drinks in the coffee shops and resistance, I find, is futile.  A wholefood shop in a nearby town has recently offered fresh turmeric for sale and I'm planning on enlivening the drinks menu here with mugs of turmeric and ginger latte.  

Seasonal changes appear elsewhere.  I'm a big fan of matching my reading to the time of year whenever I can and, as Halloween approaches, I'm eager to get stuck into a spooky new book (though in no particular hurry to finish the current book at bedtime, a gripping tale of the Witchfinder General and life in mid 17th century England).  

Although I light scented candles indoors throughout the year, they make so much more sense as the nights draw in, adding to the cosy feel as you close the curtains, switch on the lamps and settle down to tune into the latest episode of Bake Off or the much less sugaryTin Star.  And an added bonus, they don't highlight your lack of dusting like sunlight does.   

Oh, yes, I love autumn, me.

 

 

Lately

We've been spending time (not to mention mucho dinero) on replacing a raft of boring but essential items which had seemingly conspired to simultaneously give up the ghost.  Things like a bed, a fridge freezer, an oven, a washing machine, a steam iron and a garden pond pump (two of the biggest fish were sad casualties of this particular malfunction, though they were given a decent burial under the whitebeam at the bottom of the garden which I must remember before embarking on the usual slap-happy spade work).

Then, as we worked through the ever increasing catalogue of ailing appliances, the dog stopped eating. Initially someone joked he was just helping ease the financial situation by reducing his (specialist dried stuff for sensitive doggy tums) food intake. He became so bony, we all stopped patting him in case he broke.  There followed a number of blood tests and investigations under general anaesthetic and then a vet's bill so large I wished I'd been anaesthetised before being presented with it. The result? Nothing untoward was detected. Nothing at all. Yet the refusal to eat continued despite the wafting of normally bite your hand off treats under his nose, such as cubes of vintage cheddar, scrambled eggs, marinated tofu, and sometimes all three together.   As a last-ditch attempt to tickle the taste buds, the switch was made to those pouches of gravy soaked chunks.  The result?  He scoffed every single scrap, with an air of, 'Thank goodness and about time, too', and has done at every meal since.   Even the cat licks out the dog's dinner bowl.  I've now started another Things To Be Replaced list as my car needs new tyres, the power washer hasn't recovered from my attempts at cleaning the paving slabs in the back garden and I'm wearing crooked specs (thought I'd developed a neurological problem but thankfully it was just down to all the wonk). 

London called one Saturday so off I went, in the company of my cousin.  We met up with her boy, who lives and works in the capital, for coffee and a good old chinwag and then wandered the streets of the city, eventually heading across London Bridge towards the resistance-is-futile stalls of Borough Market before finally ending the day with another delicious afternoon tea here and my first vegan macaron.

Last weekend we supported a charity fundraising open gardens event in the North Yorkshire market town up the road.  You really can't beat a good nose round someone else's plot, however small, for inspiration, ideas and cheap plants (and, in the case of the mister, regular top ups of tea and slices of homemade cake), even when you've visited some of the gardens several times over the years.   One thing's for sure, the garden here would never meet the standard for public inspection.  Well, unless the dead leaves (damned enormous, constantly shedding eucalyptus), twigs (despised white buddleias that were supposed to be blue not white and much less snappy) and trampled plants (too many big furry feet plodding around and I don't mean the mister's) theme becomes de rigueur.

Just before the oven died, I managed to nab a little time in the kitchen (someone else here is still obsessed with all things patisserie and is now making up his own recipes - lemon meringue eclairs anyone?) for a spot of gentle pottering with the piping bag.  Yes, the Boy might be Star Baker but I'm still the Buttercream Queen.

 

Horses for courses

I  had intended to write the promised book related post but, in a fit of je ne sais quoi, the plan changed and I decided to tackle the outstanding job of decorating the smallest bedroom.  

My parents would have nothing to do with anything involving a tin of paint and always called in the professionals.  The mister, however,  has tackled all sorts of DIY projects, big and small, since we acquired our first house way back in the day.  But in recent years he's lost all enthusiasm for that kind of thing and arguably the required flexibility to scale ladders safely. (Me?  Like a mountain goat).

To date, my biggest claim to decorating fame has been a 'refresh' of the little summerhouse at the bottom of  the garden.  I'm the only one who uses it and no-one can spot the drips and missed bits from other parts of the garden.

 'Are you sure you know what you're doing?, queried Mr. Know-It-All as I lumbered up the stairs with the necessary equipment.

Oh, come on, how difficult can it be?  The ceiling's already white and the walls not-quite-white, so the whole room will be done and dusted in a jiffy.

Or so I thought.

It didn't bode well when I had to call for assistance with getting the lid off the enormous (and heavy) tub of paint.  

Then,  when I poured paint into the tray I couldn't stop the flow, so, in the absence of anything more appropriate,  had to use my hands to get the globby (it's a word, I've checked) mountain of overflow back into the tub.  

I started with the ceiling but quickly gave up when I couldn't differentiate the freshly painted strip from the rest.  I mean, who wants to waste their time and effort?  And anyway, who looks at ceilings outside of the Sistine Chapel?

Also, I sincerely hope that whoever came up with the idea of painting with a roller didn't receive a Nobel prize or design award. Honestly, those things just spray paint everywhere.  E.v.e.r.y.w.h.e.r.e.

Of course, someone couldn't resist poking his nose in at regular intervals.

'You're supposed to start with the corners'.

Turns out I'm not good with corners.

And I'm no better with the bits in between the corners.  

Maybe patchy will become a decorating trend.

Then there's painting behind the radiator. I mean, how?

Ditto the venetian blind.  Should I take it down?  Again, how?**

I've lost count of the number of times I've stood in the loaded paint tray.  Buzz Cat decided to do that 'Look at me, I'm outside the bedroom window, balancing precariously on a narrow ledge, oops, nearly fell off there' and I inadvertently stepped off the ladder when Nathan, our usually quiet and reserved window cleaner, announced his unexpected presence (surely he does his round on a Thursday?) by sticking his head in the room and calling out 'Hiya'. 

The clock holding down the dust sheet (one of the Boy's duvet covers as I couldn't locate the dust sheets) fell off the top of the wardrobe and badly bruised my foot.  Downward dog is going to be painful.

My hair, face, hands and forearms are pebble-dashed.

My watch strap is ruined and my rings and bangles require a good sandblasting.

The jeans and shirt I've been wearing are beyond recognition and there's paint inside my bra. 

The laminate flooring looks like Jackson Pollock was unleashed on it.  When he was in his Paw Prints phase.  Yep, whilst I was downstairs enjoying a much needed tea break, Bea Cat decided to check on progress, leaving a white matt trail across the bedroom and onto the carpeted landing.  Actually, the little paw prints look quite artistic amongst all the other blobs and drips and smears and sprays.

'You'll never remove all that paint from the floor', advised Job's Comforter.*

'Not to mention the cat's paws', I thought.

It's probably safe to say interior decorating really isn't my forte.

I'm beginning to wonder if anything is.

 

 Edited to add:

*Turns out The Expert knows diddly-squat about laminate flooring and paint splashes as I've easily (well, fairly easily) removed most of them with a packet of Sainsbury's antibacterial wipes (supersize).  

**Problem solved with the Boy's intervention.

 

 

January days

The first month of the year has always been a celebratory time in my family because of all the birthdays.  Now there's just the one but I really don't mind these dark days at all and they give me the perfect excuse to switch on all the lamps and light all the candles.  Shame it hasn't yet been cold enough (our central heating is seemingly dancing to its own tune so I'm mafted most of the time) to warrant the wearing of a new Nordic jumper.

The current book at bedtime had been on the reading list for quite some time.

Then I came across a selection of Christmas reads, which included a copy, at a ridiculous price.  Some of the books I already have in different editions but five quid for eight festively 'wrapped' books?  A bargain that just could not be passed by. You're welcome.

Like other parts of the country, the north east was treated to a fall of snow at the end of last week but it was fleeting and by Sunday there was just a hint of what had been.  It seems such a long time since we've experienced a thick blanket of white. Yes,  I appreciate it can cause all sorts of problems but, oh, you just can't beat waking up to a transformed landscape and that unmistakable crunch as you first step out onto that pristine layer.

There was a Terry's chocolate orange, superfluous to requirements when filling the Christmas stockings, lurking in the cupboard.  So I selflessly made brownies for the other two here, using this recipe (I scattered big chunks of the chocolate orange across the top and gave them a dusting of sugar snow). 

They were quickly mixed, out of the oven and into mouths in no time.  As the munching progressed, I asked what they were like.  'Cake', was the helpful response.