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?

 

Lately in verbs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loving how the garden table resembles a giant waffle.

Waffles.

Now, there's an idea.

 

 

It's a wrap!

 

 

 

So, the festive celebrations are done and dusted, somewhat differently but surprisingly enjoyable nonetheless.

We three managed to feel part of the littlest's Christmas Day (and beyond) courtesy of FaceTime and the telly, with both households sticking to the usual routine and timings.

Prior to the big day, me and the Boy, as planned, met up with my girlie in the car park of a motorway service area to handover bags of presents (I'd worked a few shifts in Santa's workshop to renovate little wooden bunk beds for teddies which had belonged to littlest's mummy and were at the top of The List) and food.  Plenty of mask wearing and socially distanced others were doing the same, a sight which made me tearful (it doesn't take much).

Despite covid restrictions, and the challenges the mister's dementia adds,  there were several breaks from the almost incessant gorging (that mince pie eating contest?  I won!) with visits to the RSPB reserve, a park, the mudflats at the mouth of the river, and me and the Boy managed an evening walk along the beach.  

There was a rapid access hospital appointment which ended with very good news.

Most nights involved several rounds of Exploding Kittens (I love that game, possibly because I'm slightly less crap at playing it than I am Cluedo and Scrabble).

We had snow.

And a leaking roof.  

2020 was waved goodbye with some considerable relief and the new year welcomed, albeit tentatively. 

Whilst we can but hope for an easier ride over the next twelve months, I think it's safe to say I won't be making any resolutions or plans. 

I'll definitely be continuing with the Netflix subscription, maintaining a stock of pasta and tinned tomatoes and relying, I'm sure, on the stack of Christmas present books (and a subscription for even more) for some pleasurable escape.

Thank you so much for your continued visits and comments.  They are very much appreciated.

Happy New Year.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited to add:  Typepad appears to be playing up and not all of the pictures posted may be visible.  You can right click on the image number and open in new tab to view.

 

Merry Different Christmas

It's almost here. 

No wise words, just sending wishes to you all for the best Christmas possible. 

 

 

 

Filling in the gaps

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

Time flies, even during a pandemic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chocolate liqueur, anyone?

 

Summer's end in verbs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hoping we recognise each other the next time we meet.  

 

Socially distanced celebrating

Me and the Boy drove to the beach, the first time in a long time despite it being such a short distance away. 

It felt good to connect with the real world for a while, a welcome break from life in the twilight zone.

We splodged along the shoreline, maintaining the advised distance, scanning the sand and rock pools for what the littlest would term 'treasure', wondering if a dead jellyfish, one of many washed up and looking for all the world like a purple flower encased in gloop, would have made the final cut.

The forecast had warned of heavy rain all day and, like every man and his dog, we'd dressed accordingly. 

Predictably, grey skies turned blue, the sun shone, waterproof jackets became an encumbrance and the Boy's head (sporting a radical number 1 haircut) turned pink.

The steep steps to the top, where the car and our picnic lunch were parked, had had another hundred or so added to them since last scaled. 

Or maybe it was the impact of Post Lockdown, Still Doing Far Too Much Sitting And Face Stuffing syndrome.

Whichever,  I stopped for a breather on the half-way bench whilst the colour of a certain head moved up the pink intensity scale.

Back home, there was a chocolate, rose and pistachio cake and a bottle of bubbly, accompanied by some rousing singing over the phone from an enthusiastic littlest, who was somewhere at the southern end of the country, suitably pumped up (as, I'm sure, were his parents) for a visit the next day to Peppa Pig World.

There were cards and gifts to open - books, posh chocs, Turkish delight from a stall at Borough Market (I'm addicted), a selection of spices, a scarf, flowers, plant, candle - which truly couldn't have been chosen better.  My people know me well.

I'd started the day not feeling in a particularly celebratory mood.  The Boo had been ill the previous week which had led to an afternoon with the emergency vet for various tests, a scan and injections (he was given methadone and tramadol; I was trying to work out how I'd fund a dog with a drug habit), with follow up scans at our usual surgery the next day.  He's doing well but the vets' bills are his Christmas present for the next 25 years.

Then there was a scarily high number knocking on my door and the omnipresent spectre of The Virus.

Not the ideal ingredients for a day of merrymaking. 

But, you know what?

I love birthdays, me.

Edited to add:  For some inexplicable reason (problems with Typepad? Virgin Media? Who knows?),  I'm now unable to respond to comments via email.  Apologies for this and, as always, thanks so much for taking the time to visit and leave a comment on my ramblings.

 

Filling in the gaps

August already.

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

Time marches on. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It ain't easy.

Baby steps, baby steps.

 

Making new friends during lockdown

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

I'm missing meeting up with friends. 

For coffee, lunch, an early doors dinner. 

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

So I made a new friend.

Literally.

We've really clicked.

Hej till Greta.

(Translation:  Say hello to Greta)