love those cupcakes

Week in verbs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  

 

Light relief

Just so you know it hasn't all been doom and gloom and cauliflowers here.                 

There have been one or two treats of the festive kind.

Fortunately, the newest and littlest member of the family sees the funny side of most things.  On this occasion, a new sweatshirt seemed to be tickling his fancy.  (Photo courtesy of the Girlie's phone.)

I popped into town one evening and bumped into my current favourite band, locally based Cattle and Cane, who provided a welcome musical interlude amidst all the gift finding.  (Have a listen.)

And The Coat is back. Only for two episodes, but still.  

 

 

Week in verbs

Finished a (charity shop bargain) book. No, not the one about Richard 111, I'm still just over halfway through that.  But I needed a break from all the arguing about who should sit on the throne and the ever changing loyalties and the battles, so many battles, you'd think they'd run out of soldiers.  

The Woman Upstairs isn't about a ghost in the attic but 40 something Norah Eldridge.  She's 'the woman upstairs', a good teacher in an American elementary school, a good daughter, a frustrated artist, single, childless, ordinary, invisible. She's unhappy with her lot.  And she's angry. Norah looks back on a particular time in her life, a year when she became infatuated with a new pupil in her class and his parents, a family which fills the gaps in her life, a family she becomes a part of.  Or so she thinks. This novel is not big on plot (most of the action takes place in Norah's head), and the central character is not particularly likeable, but it is well written and one I'd recommend.

Knit a hat.  Actually, two hats, one for me, one (a Halloween accessory) for a cat.  I rather like mine. The cat hates his.

Carved (same design as last year because if it ain't broke....) a pumpkin.  With some assistance.  I'm really not good with knives.  And, it seems, forks, if recent experiences with jacket potatoes are anything to go by.

Scared the living daylights out of the cat.  I swear, all I did was wear a pair of sparkly devil's horns for Halloween and all hell broke loose.  Maybe it was payback for the knitted hat.

Baked a batch of pumpkin and chocolate chip muffins with the leftovers from all the carving.  First time using the recipe and, as they were a bit of a faff and nothing special taste-wise, probably the last.  I ended up eating all of them.  Apparently I didn't do a very good job selling them to the others here who preferred to tuck into the bowl of chocolate treats by the front door.  Funny how the Milky Ways are always the ones left at the bottom.

Bought my first Christmas magazine.  I used to be an avid reader of the monthly glossies but they're just an occasional purchase now.  I do, however, buy most of the Christmas editions.

Played this continuously (and sang along) whilst out and about in the car.   I first posted about local band Cattle and Cane (and you can listen) here and can highly recommend the album 'cos they're dead good.

Crocheted a Remembrance poppy.  I needed a lot of help with this at crochet club.  In fact, I had to be moved to sit next to our group's leader and crochet expert.  At first, my poppy looked like a teeny basket. After the next attempt, someone remarked, 'You've made a snail'.  I got there eventually but the experience just confirmed what I already knew.  Crochet patterns are written in Hungarian and I'm useless with a hook.

Ordered a Thundershirt for the dog shaped scaredy cat here.  I should have saved my money.  It's made not the slightest difference.

Enjoyed the glorious colours of the season in the last days of the month.  Whatever else is going on at the moment, just walking, with the backdrop of autumn in all its glory, never fails to lift the spirit.

 

 

Bits from the week

 Maybe not the most exciting of times but there's been.....

.... a bit of time spent at the beach on a warm, hazy Saturday 

.... a bit of flower arranging.  Despite the distinct lack of green fingers here, the garden is still producing enough to fill a couple of vases (though, true to form, I've managed to kill off an established fatsia japonica) 

.... a bit of baking.  We were completely out of bread and I was in the mood for a bit of kneading   

.... a bit of mooching in the charity shops.  Four books and a total spend of two quid.  Looks like we may need a bigger bookcase

.... a bit of butterfly watching.   There have been bees a-plenty in the garden here this summer but no butterflies.  Then one day the buddleia lived up to its name and they were everywhere.  I stood on the grass surrounded by them, half expecting a bluebird to land on my shoulder to complete the picture

.... a bit of beetroot enjoying.  In the form of soup, a simple, Rose Elliot recipe I've been using for donkey's years.  And after the soup, the joy of pink washing-up water

.... a bit of pampering on National Dog Day.  As good a day as any to spruce up the Boo who was not, it has to be said, smelling his best.  He is now

.... a bit of listening to a new favourite band.  They're local and pretty damn good

  

Friends reunited

On Wednesday, we got to use a couple of Christmas presents.

Tickets to see Fleetwood Mac in Manchester (thanks very much, Boy).

The last time we saw them in concert was a few years ago, when Christine McVie was still on what turned out to be a 16 year sabbatical. 

This time, despite the (well documented) complicated, fractured history, they would all be back together.

But Fleetwood Mac is a band me and the mister have sort of grown up with.

Both of us first came across them when the line up, and the sound, was very different.  

Back in the day, it was Peter Green's Fleetwood Mac and Christine was still Christine Perfect and with Chicken Shack.

I didn't know the mister in those days but it turns out we were at the same venue most Sunday nights, Redcar Jazz Club.  

This was the smoke fugged little place where you joined the queue, paid your 10 bob and got to see up and coming bands like Cream, Pink Floyd, The Who, Jethro Tull and many many more.

I have to admit that, in the years I frequented the club, I was under age.  The mister's a bit older so he was always legal.

This is a picture taken by my brother of me on a Jazz Club night, applying the slap in an attempt to look less like a schoolgirl and more like Christine Perfect.

But it was the place to be and nothing was going to keep me and my two best friends away.

(Part of one year's bookings for the Jazz Club.  

Source:  'The Redcar Jazz Club' ,  Graham Lowe and Dennis Weller) 

When you've been fans of a band for so long, there's always that concern that seeing them one more time might prove to be the wrong thing to do, that it's become clear they've passed their sell by date, that they need to put the instruments into storage, enjoy their pensions and make use of their bus passes. 

Opening with The Chain, they played for about two and half hours, never flagging, never hitting a bum note, never missing a beat, never disappointing.

Other instantly recognisable old favourites were there - Go Your Own Way, Tusk, Don't Stop and the rest. 

It was impossible not to sing along.

It was nigh on perfect.

 

Ringing out solstice bells

The late in the year holiday and recovering from its unfortunate, erm, aftermath have resulted in a very long Christmas to do list with very few ticks on it.  

The tree is still sitting in a bucket of water in the garage.

The decorations remain in the loft.

I've posted the wrong Christmas cards through neighbours' letterboxes.

The floor in the spare room is knee deep with shopping bags full of presents.

Seems that when I panic about Christmas, I buy more gifts.  

I started to scale Mount Wrapping the other day.  

Have you ever used glittered Christmas paper?

Take my advice and just. don't.

It's resistant to being stuck down with sellotape.

The glitter falls off by the shovelful and gets everywhere. 

The cats and Boo look positively radioactive.

We hardly need to switch the lights on, it's all so sparkly here.

The Boy complains that he lives in the House of Scrooge.

Can he not see all that glitter?

There's nothing for it but to stay optimistic and hang on to the belief that it will all come together in the end.

Which of course it will.

Until it does, I'll just ring out those solstice bells.

 

 

 

Blast from the past

Comics were a big part of my childhood.  I loved them and the associated annuals (some of them, neatly covered in sticky backed plastic, still grace the bookshelves here) which appeared under the tree every Christmas.  It probably had a lot to do with my mother.  I don't remember ever seeing her read a book but she had daily newspapers (two on Sundays) and weekly magazines (Woman and Woman's Own) delivered to the shop she and my dad had and which was also our home, and at some point she added comics for me.

It started with Bunty, which would arrive on Tuesdays, and Judy on Wednesdays.  But my appetite for comics grew and so the order at the newsagent's (Tunnels, which, thinking about it, we could easily have walked to as it was just at the end of our street) was expanded over the years.  Eventually,  Mondays meant Diana, Thursdays brought School Friend and later Girl, Sunday was Princess.  Sometimes there was a free gift inside (oh, that Bunty bracelet with the black plastic Scottie dog charm) and even pen friend clubs to join (which I did and ended up writing to girls in Germany, Australia and the USA).

In my teens, the comics were ditched and I moved onto the wonderful Petticoat magazine.  Every issue included interviews with Famous People and short stories but it was the fashion pages I, and no doubt everyone else who read it, pored over.  This is where I found ideas for outfits and where I discovered names like Biba, Quorum, Clobber, Foale and Tuffin, Ravel, Bus Stop.  

Unsurprisingly, none of the clothes were ever available in the shops in my home town, where Chelsea Girl and C&A reigned.  If I couldn't buy by mail order (Anello and Davide managed to make me a pair of shoes based on cardboard cutouts of my feet) I relied on my brother, armed with a magazine cutting,  to stop by the King's Road or Way In en route from Heathrow and whichever holiday he was returning home from.

Mostly, though, it was Aunty M, who had worked as a tailoress and was exceptionally skilful, who would step up. All I had to do was show her the picture in Petticoat, choose the fabric and she would set to with her sewing machine. She could make anything - skirts,  dresses, trousers, jackets - which never ever had that homemade look. A burgundy crushed velvet coat was a standout.  I kid you not, it was absolutely fab.

Wasting a half hour browsing eBay recently, I came across a listing for a copy of Petticoat  (it had made its way to New Zealand) which I bid for and won.  

It was something on the cover which set a bell ringing.

I remember ordering this ready to sew kit in the turquoise and green colourway, which Aunty M duly stitched in time for a holiday my brother, who was 16 years older than me, was treating me to.

 And here I am wearing it.   Aged 15.  In Nassau, in the Bahamas.  Looking nothing like the model but probably thinking I was the bee's knees.  Probably reading a copy of Petticoat.  Possibly with sellotape sticking down that hair under the hood.

I came across the photograph in an old biscuit tin full of all sorts which I brought from my parents' house and which also contained the postcard I'd sent at the time.

Clearly written before we were invited one night to listen to some singer who was performing in an airport hangar.

I'm not sure my friends believed me when I told them I'd seen Aretha Franklin.

 

'I don't know where I'm going from here, but I promise it won't be boring'.*

Resisting temptation, I didn't buy one of these yesterday. 

I'd travelled by rail from here in the north east to London for the day, to visit the David Bowie is exhibition at the V&A.

It didn't make up for never having seen him perform live (coulda, woulda, shoulda).

But it was probably the next best thing.

I'm not sure what I was expecting. 

Maybe a visual timeline of a remarkable career.

Which it is.

Yet it's so much more.

Yes, there's a big focus on Bowie's considerable creative output.

But there's also a strong sense of someone always concerned with the detail, of someone who always manages to retain control.

The exhibition, not unexpectedly, starts at the beginning, with Bowie's childhood, the defining influences (family members, music, literature, art, theatre) of those early days and the striving to just stand out. 

But then chronology goes out the window and we're taken all over the place.

So many of the exhibits are from the man himself. Clearly, decluttering hasn't featured much along the way and, fortunately for us, he's hung on to so much.

There are the iconic outfits (to fit the 26 and a half inch waist) for whichever persona.

There are the handwritten on sheets of lined notepaper song lyrics.

There are the ideas boards for album covers, for set designs, for a stage musical of 1984 (which apparently failed in getting the nod from Orwell's widow).

There are the paintings from his Berlin days and recovery from those times when cocaine was his fuel of choice.

There are the theatre and film clips (including that personal favourite, Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence).

There's the spectacular floor to roof wall of videos of some memorable performances (and the much missed Mick Ronson) surrounded by the actual costumes.

And always, courtesy of the nifty Sennheiser headsets, that unmistakeable voice and the music, such memory evoking music. 

If you do go to see the exhibition, expect to be in the company of large numbers of others (one big negative) as you experience each section and allow yourself much more than the V&A's suggested 90 minutes (it took me more than 3 hours to get round and I'm sure I didn't get to see everything).  Oh, and leave your camera at home as photography is verboten.

 

* David Bowie

Lately

• A trip to the Sage, up the road in Gateshead, to see the excellent Civil Wars and the equally talented support band, the Lumineers.

• Trying out a new (to me) brownie recipe.  So very good.  Most of the brownies accompanied the Boy, who was home for the weekend, back to uni to share with his flatmates.  They were rapidly scoffed, apparently.  I think this recipe could be next and this book has already been added to my wishlist.

• Joining in an autumn blog swap and receiving a packed parcel of seasonal goodies (a perfect-for-hot-chocolate mug filled with teeny marshmallows, notebook, lip balm, soup mug complete with sachets of mushroom soup, deliciously spicy Lush bath bomb, handmade heart decoration, mittens) from my swap partner.

• Buying a new bed after Someone here thought it was a good idea to eat his.

               

 

A night at the opera

My first. 

At the Theatre Royal in Newcastle. 

Courtesy of one of the Husband's Christmas presents.

We started with an early doors supper, pasta arrabiata and courgette fritters with basil mayonnaise for me, pizza and chips (predictably) for him.

It bugs me that we have to travel to visit a decent theatre (there is a tiny one locally with limited performances) as this town was once overrun with them. 

Newcastle's Theatre Royal is about an hour's drive away and a wonderful venue.  It's about to undergo extensive renovation which will include new seating, much needed for those of us with long legs!   

As for the opera itself, this was a first and I wasn't sure what to expect though, obviously, some of the music was very familiar (the overture, habanera, the toreador song and the bit they used for the Esso television advert years ago).  I loved it (the performance was in French with helpful sub titles on small screens at the sides of the stage) though it's probably fair to say that the baring of breasts, mooning and a dog in a muzzle were a bit of a surprise.  

Now I'm wondering how I can get Boo an Equity card.