Foot off the Accelerator

 Disengage warp speed and slooooow. 

This week, I untangled myself from a final couple of things where the stress-to-pay, or, stress-to-benefit ratio was definitely not working in my favour and gave myself some time to, well, just sit. 

Unfortunately, it coincided with a heat wave that I dealt with in the same way I do all heatwaves. With the repeated application of cold, wet flannels around the neck, sleeping in the afternoon, working earlier in the day and the repeated wailing of "oh god, this is horrible, why is this happening, I hate this, why are my feet 3 times their usual size, do we have any ice cream, no don't put that there, it's too hot for that" and so on. 

I am a JOY in a heatwave. 

My northern soul longs for cool breezes, overcast skies and a temperature that does not register higher than 25 degrees. 

The allotment is thriving without any more intervention from me than a watering every couple of days. Abundance is still the watchword and what comes from the plot makes up most of our meals. The giant beetroot and onions become a salad, the courgettes spicy fritters and the potatoes need nothing more than a quick rinse, a quick boil and a simple dressing of olive oil and lemon juice. 

It is perfect.

So I am looking forward to more time on the plot this summer. I'm working enough to pay my half of the bills and to still have time to be up there. The next step is to widen one of the beds, currently occupied by peas that are straggly and seem not to recognise the pea sticks they are right next to, preferring to spread themselves over the ground, despite my best efforts with twine. I've recently been reading up on the no-dig method, so I'l be trying that for a change. 

I have things to read and things to write. I have good food to prepare and a sewing machine to get to grips with. 

I have, most importantly of all, a course to prepare for! Oh yes. I have bitten a bullet and enrolled myself on the RHS Level 2 in Practical Horticulture that starts in September. At the moment this is exciting and I'm pushing all worries to the back of my mind. 

Mainly because I have 2 whole months before it starts. 8 weeks in which to get well. Get the un-working bits of me fixed. Get rested and well. Get rooted. I feel slightly like a plant that's only ever been watered from above. My roots are shallow and easily dislodged. Time to let them go deeper. 

N, because he is capable of occasional flashes of genius, brought me a chair hammock (you sit up in it, not lie down, which I prefer) that fixes onto the Degoba System and swings gently to and fro. I now understand why people spend hours in porch swings in the southern American states. There is something very hypnotic about that gentle to and fro. Whole hours can pass with nothing more done than watching the bees upend themselves in the lilies. 

 view from my hammock

The same lilies that I sniffed a little too vigorously the other day. "Why," I wondered to myself after I'd answered the door. "Did the postman give me such a funny look?"

Answer: lily pollen. All over my nose like I'd thrown a jar of turmeric on it. 

Classy.

Invisible Sharks

The other day I lowered myself into the pool for one of my weekly swims, ready to enjoy the warm water, the solitude, the movement without pain from my feet etc etc, when I realised realised that most of the pool lights were switched off. No one else was around and it was quite dark in there. This was a little eerie, to say the least but it takes more than eerie to put me off, so undaunted (nothing gets between me and my swim...apart from my own laziness), I took another step down the ladder and...

froze. Literally. 

Something awful had happened. Something catastrophic. Something that caused me to inch my way into the water muttering out loud, "Holy Mary Mother of God, Jesus and all his blessed Saints" like Mrs. Doyle falling down the stairs (yep, I'm working that 2% Irish DNA in my system until I get a damn passport). A scene which, by the way, is completely overshadowed by the "So you're a racist now Father" spiel from the same episode* - also brilliant but not the comic masterpiece of a middle-aged Irish housekeeper falling down a flight of stairs while reciting the above. 

I digress. 

Anyway, what had brought this on, you ask? Well, the water was FREEZING. Like a good 10 degrees colder than it had been yesterday and there'd been no warning from the girl on reception, no cheery "brace yourself!" as I walked past her. It was like stepping down into the North Sea in February.

So what to do? Get out or stay in? Get out, get warm, get to work early? Stay in, stay with the schedule, stay active?

Reader, chump that I am, I stayed in. 

I stayed and I swam the hell out of that pool. Desperate not to turn blue, catch pneumonia or go to work early, I stayed in that water and I swam. Cut my usual 14 strokes per length (it's a small pool okay?) down to 10 and swam like it was the only way to ever be warm again. I swam that mother-fucking pool and felt like a champ. 

Until I paused (for breath) and looked back. 

The only person in there was me. The lack of light made the water looked a darker blue than usual. It also looked a bit choppy because of aforementioned activity. It was still cold and far over I could see a weird shape in the water.** It looked like it might be moving, but of course, that was just the movement of the water.

Before I really had time to get my rationality back on track, they were back and populating the pool. The Invisible Sharks. These had been my secret phobia when I was a kid: scared of sharks and convinced that no matter how inland the pool, how chlorinated the water, or how populated with people, there were Invisible Sharks in there and they were looking for small scared kids who splashed too much and didn't swim so good. 

Suddenly I am 6 years old again. 6 years old in a rainbow striped swimsuit. Not a strong swimmer and not confident enough to stand up against the swimming instructor who can't understand why I'm having trouble. At the far end, the bigger kids are diving for black bricks thrown into the water for them to retrieve and I cannot for the life of me imagine why they would willingly do that, what if there are sharks in there? Obviously there aren't because I can't see any but What If They Are Invisible? 

God only knows what I'd been reading to invent invisible, chlorine-loving sharks. I hadn't watched Jaws (and no, I still haven't). I hadn't been taken on holiday anywhere sharks lived. I hadn't got a relative with a nasty shark-related injury. But there they were, all of a sudden, and you could only see them if you stared hard enough at the way the water moved in the pool. 

It took years to forget them.

I became an adult, I swam in shallow waters, sometimes in the sea but mostly in pools. I insisted on being able to see the bottom of whatever it was I was swimming in. I forgot the sharks but they hadn't forgotten me. 

Of course, now I am an adult and Above Such Childish Things so I gave myself, and the sharks, a stern talking to, took a breath and started swimming again. Carefully, so I didn't disturb the water too much. God only knows what I must have looked like, a middle aged woman staring down in the water while head is held resolutely above, fists clenched, making my front crawl very unwieldy as well as incredibly slow. 

5 more lengths and it was time for me to get out and head to work***. The sharks stayed away and I emerged intact and triumphant. Stuck my tongue out at them as I left. The hot water in the shower afterwards has never felt so good. 

 

*Wikipedia link to the episode if your fancy is to have all the humour sucked out of it

**turned out to be a differently coloured tile I'd never noticed before, but still

***I've since swum 4 more times, so I'm completely over this phobia and not at all crazy.  

The Great Harvesting

When I lived in the countryside, the arrival of summer fruit season would always bring me joy. I'd search out the nearest pick your own place to take the kid and gather huge punnets of strawberries and raspberries. Some of them got made into jam, most were just eaten with fingers, with ice cream, in cakes. Blackberries ditto. 

And I would always feel rather virtuous and smug. Look at me, making the most of the bounty of the land! Hand me my tweed jacket and walking boots for I am a child of nature!(Not quite as child a nature as the new plot holders on the site who were spotted smearing their faces with mud from their site. They could be an interesting addition to the social mix). 

How little I knew. 

Now I am bound to the city and have an allotment on which to pretend I know what I'm doing, the word harvest has taken on a whole new meaning. 

The combination of a few days being busy with projects at home, the scorching sun followed by the rains followed by more sun, meant that when I finally got up to the plot this evening, I was greeted by courgettes (more of them!) the size of my arm, runner beans so big and fat the breeze couldn't move them and bindweed growing with abundance over the site of the fruit cage. 

Half an hour's hoe work and one blister later, the latter had been conquered for at least...oooh... 2 days if I'm lucky. 

So far, courgettes have been turned into soup, chutney, flatbread, bhajis and, new in this week, a tart with a tahini and yogurt cream which was delicious in the extreme. The runner beans have been blanched and frozen, eaten hot from the pan with gravy and roast potatoes, and eaten warm with a dressing of olive oil, balsamic vinegar and dijon mustard. The giant cucumber (only 2 so far) have been pickled for me to eat with some salmon later this week. 

We were left a small bag of greengages which, supplemented with some plums, I turned into a sort of jam. I say sort of because I foolishly left it to cool before putting it in jars: by the time I got to it, the syrup had stickified (totally a word) itself to the roasting pan and had to be coaxed off. I'm sure it'll taste just fine...

Anyway, the 2 jars of that are now on the new "preserves shelf" in the utility room (I put a lot of plastic boxes in recycling for that to happen), along with the pickled beetroot and courgette chutney. 

The boyfriend has yet to make his runner bean chutney. We are going to need more jars. 

Of the squash I planted a few months ago, so far, apart from their tendrils spreading all over 3 beds, I can see only one promising green one. The tiny patty pans, which are my favourite, seem to have rotted before they were ready, which is a shame. The cabbages are doing fine in their butterfly and pigeon proof cage. 

Next year, there will be a fruit cage filled with raspberries and strawberries, an asparagus bed to tend and the start of the new mini orchard. I can't wait to be even shorter of cupboard space and for the house to smell of vinegar and jam sugar. 

On a side note, did anyone else stand in their garden during the break in the weather last week, arms outstretched, yelling "it's about bloody time!" at the skies? Oh the cooling rain! I'm not a natural heat lover and the only person I know who craves a holiday home in Iceland to escape to during British summertime. 

If I could just win the lottery...

The Good News Roundup

Well, this was going to be a Good News roundup but then events overtook me and, instead of being able to trawl the internet for happy stories, I've been distracted by setting up an office at home, managing the volunteers I work with, trying to keep the museum I work in feeling alive and relevant to a (now totally) digital audience etc etc etc. So. Not much time for trawling. 

The middle section of the elder by the canal side of the allotment fell down.

On the plus side, this gives us a nice handy bench for those important coffee and progress chats.  

I'm deliberately keeping away from the media - we don't watch a news program and I only read the Guardian once a day, just to try and keep some sanity and a sense of proportion. It's so easy to get carried away, hitting refresh, getting into arguments online, checking your temperature in the manner of a fragile Victorian heroine (back of hand against the brow, a weary sigh etc) and fretting that every little niggle in the throat is the start of IT. I'm keeping my anxiety levels low by keeping my exposure to hysterical media low. 

Mind you, we'd have to check for fungi before sitting. I don't imagine these black frilly types, 

nice as they look, would leave your jeans in a good state. 

I'm also not pushing myself to feel like I have to have written a novel, learned to draw like Michelangelo, inspired a whole new internet trend, become super-yoga bendy, repainted the whole house, sculpted the new centrepiece for the Venice Biennale etc etc etc. It is okay not to have done any of those things. It is okay to have managed just one blog post (here it is!), a couple of hours at the allotment and the occasional bike ride. 

Providing I get through this with an intact relationship, my family and my own sanity, I will be happy. It is nice not to feel so tired after work that I don't want to cook. It is nice to cycle through almost deserted streets (although when this is all done, I'm having a word with the damn saddle manufacturer). It is nice to do a spot of yoga now and then. It is nice to dig and chat on the allotment at the end of the day. It is nice to plant seeds. It is nice to plan our Paris-Bordeaux trip for next year. It is nice to have more time to read in bed in the morning. 

I will take your nice and raise you. 

See, holiday planning for next year. Paris to Bordeaux by train, baby. 

These are posted to the wall in front of my temporary desk and bringing

some sanity. Plus hope. Hope is good. 

Just two links to good news this week, because I'm finding that focusing my mental energy on farming and ecology is more of a help than focusing it on the lack of flour in my local shop.

Ecology is a feminist issue. Why taking a feminine approach to the current world crisis may be the approach that stops our house from burning.

Urban areas can be farms too! I love the idea that once bleak and divided places can be made communal, productive and a force for good. 

Keep yourselves well and sane. Remember to get dressed properly, eat what you feel like, move around a little. Remember to be kind. 

Art Make Good Now

I love illustrators and cartoonists, the way they can take a piece of reality and gently show you the absurdity or sublimity of it. So I'm dedicating a series of Friday posts to the visual gifters of this world. 

One of my absolute favourites is Tom Gauld - the sparsity of the line, the wry observation that makes you snort, the lettering, the adorable little people...

Hey, I said this would be about graphic artists I like, not that I would be giving an intellectual review of them. 

The only annoying thing about him is that he's exactly the same age as me and draws like he does whereas the last time I drew anything, my 6 year old niece squinted at it and said "why does the lady look afraid?" She was supposed to smiling at a squirrel. I will draw a veil over what she thought the squirrel looked like...

But for a quality visual feast for your eyes, you can see more of Tom's work here.