Of the Before and the After

The Potting Shed by Lore Pemberton. 

On my Christmas wish list, Click on the image to get to her website.

I had planned to pop on here and say something cheerful about winter being nearly here, but it feels like we have crossed that invisible marker here in the Midlands. Winter is already here. The past week has been full of huge downpours, torrents of raindrops that hurled themselves at the windows and roof, drumming percussive music through the week. Whole days have been blackened by rain clouds, battered by winds. Taking the train to Gloucester, I could see the silver glint of flooded fields by Bredon Hill, the hill itself looking dark and already folded into hibernation. Occasionally, a wild sunbeam would break through the cloud, sending down a fierce bright light that made me blink. 

On Monday, my friend came over with her little boy. 10 months old and already staggering around like a wee drunk man, bow legged and hands raised up for the sheer joy of motion and speed and independence. He is a joyful whirlwind, a tiny tyke, a terror of all cats and bearer of childhood nursery germs that I had long lost all immunity to. 24 hours later, whilst hoovering up what I hoped was the last of the rice particles he had liberally blessed the carpet with, I felt an ominous itch in the back of my throat. 

This has been a proper, old fashioned cold, the like of which I haven't experienced since the Kid left primary school. Stuffy of head and nose, full of catarrh, throat like sandpaper, eyes like heavy hot marbles and sleep punctuated by a cough that would scatter the crows. Bravely I have soldiered on through it, meeting grant application deadlines, project end deadlines and meetings that could not, would not be shifted. But now I'm ready to lean into it, give in to it. Lie on the sofa with a cool flannel on my forehead, a soothing drink to hand and someone else to cook. To give credit where due, N has been dying to do this for days, it's only now that I have the capacity to lay down tools and let him. 

Own. Worst. Enemy. 

But I am ready for winter now. For fresh air walks in the morning that leave your cheeks pink and tingling from the nip of a frost. For gentle yoga meditation in a candlelit evening, emerging blissed out into a house that smells of rich stews and baking bread. To take up a craft again, pick up the knitting needles or crochet hook and not care if the end result is any good. For the time to make bread and stews and soups. For woodsmoke, and citrus, and spices. 

Not that I can smell anything right now, and I was about to write "stupid cold".  Which is reflective of how I treat most of my conditions. They are stupid because they get in the way, they stop me from doing the job I loved, they cause me pain. 

But it occurs to me that this is the wrong approach to these things. It lacks grace and understanding. It tries to set the bar to how things used to be when, truth is, it can never be that again. As a friend said last week "it's okay to be angry about them but don't let that anger become all you feel". So, it is time to reach an accommodation, an acceptance of where I am now. To develop an intuitive understanding of what my body is trying to tell me, instead of rushing over it because there are things to be done. To consider a new approach to my body instead of feeling like a failure because it doesn't work like it used to. 

Chronic pain is the worst bedfellow, it sucks as a walking companion, and I've raged bitter war against it, but maybe, this Winter, I can take the time to recognise it for the signpost it is. The one that guides the way to a better, more sustainable life, overriding the itching temptation to eat all the chocolate oranges under the tree and carry on as before. 

'Before' is a closed box; 'After' is a wide, open landscape to explore. Let's see what I can find there. 

A Returning

 Last Tuesday I declared to N that I was feeling restless, missing the big long walks I used to be able to do before the arrival of grinding arthritis in my feet. I felt that the steroid injection had done its job so well, that it was possible to tackle my first one in 4 years. And where I wanted to go was a bit of a trip down memory lane. 

You see, I used to live at the foot of this hill. In my dog days, I would walk with him to the very top on a regular basis. We saunter up past the standing stones, up along the crumply fields with their intriguing hummocks and folds, along through the copse full of twisted trees that soared over our heads, and out into the wide open space. 

This place. 

It has air. Big skies. A curiously shaped stone. A tiny whimsical tower. It has the curves and falls of its Iron Age fort. It has my heart. In a way I cannot define, I belong to this place and I’d dreamed these last 4 years of being back up there. 

The old dog is gone now but I still packed an extra sandwich, an extra bottle of water, like I used to do. And we walked and walked, slowly. Not saying much, focusing on each step. Drawing the thick summer air into our lungs. Feeling muscles sit up and say “I remember this”.  

At the top, we sat and drank it all in. Had the place entirely to ourselves - crowds get drawn to the Cotswolds, the Malverns. This is ours. I let myself feel the sheer joy of being back up here after so long, after thinking I’d never get to see it again. There were a few discreet tears of sheer bloody joy. Relief. Thankfulness. 

Buzzards wheel and scream freely up here. The wind tugs at your hair. Memories wave from the corner of my eye. Turn my head too quickly and they shyly hide again. The clouds tumble over themselves in the sky, chasing their own shadows on the ground. 

We walk the perimeter and I can feel the ghosts of the tribes that called this place home jostle beside me. They chatter and laugh, argue and fuss. They cook and craft, look after the beasts they’ve brought in with them for protection. Until one bloody day when their fortress falls. Skeletons have been found in the ditches. Broken weapons. This place holds them and me. 

And then we leave. I look back as much as I look forward. Tired and dusty back at the car. T shirts sticking to our backs, water bottles empty. Feet firmly back on the ground. 

Last week, I was mostly being

Poleaxed by my thyroid. 

I’ve had an under-active thyroid for about 10 years now and mostly, I don’t notice it. I takes me meds and goes about me days. 

So much so that I’d forgotten how it feels when the drugs don’t work. Or, more accurately, when the levels need adjusting. Just a tiny 25mg boost, the smallest of tablets, easily lost under the microwave or in the toaster as it pings out of its casing when the wrong amount of force is sleepily applied while the cats wind around my ankles, wanting to know why breakfast is taking So Long. 

When the levels are too low, I achieve a state somewhere the other side of tiredness. I jokily call this my dormouse condition after Alice's sleepy Wonderland dormouse but he's positively the life and soul of the tea party in comparison

A lethargy wraps itself round me like seaweed. Every moment requires an extra effort as though I’m wading through water, chest high against a tide. Steps are slower, movement languid. I’ve been known to sit down abruptly in the middle of a downward dog, or belly flop out of a plank, just resting, resting, until I admit defeat and roll up the mat. 

And my brain slows accordingly. A simple “thank you for your email” email (because we do like to clutter our virtual correspondence with false gratitude) seemingly takes forever as I wait for the words to travel their long way down from my brain to my fingertips. And then I delete it because it doesn’t read how I imagined it would. Try again. Coaxing some fabrication of work from me. 

This is not any brain fog, this is a brain pea-souper. 

And I sleep. Oh, how I sleep. Hours lost in a weighted, dreamless state. In bed, on the sofa. Once, I woke from a shavasana pose on the yoga mat. On another memorable occasion, with my head on the back of my chair and overdue attendance at a Zoom meeting. 

There’s no warning to this sleep, no yawning, no eyelids growing deliciously heavy in the heat of a summer afternoon. This sleep clubs me around the head, knocks me out even as I think “gosh, I feel a little ti...”. The sounds of a busy city don’t even begin to penetrate, N could start up a drill in the room next door, marching bands could pass by with beating drums. I blink once, twice, gone for 60 minutes. 

Abandoned is my usual practice of  "don't just put it down, put it away" (my Canute-like effort to keep the rolling tides of clutter at bay). Bags slump from shoulders, papers flutter to the floor in a breeze and are left there. The very act of opening the dishwasher to put a mug in feels like a Herculean effort, so I don't make it. 

And clumsy! Even by my usual klutzy standards. Last Wednesday I dropped my glasses, picked them up only to have them slip out of my fingers, picked them up again and managed to hold onto them until they reached the table, where I put them down and...they promptly fell off - twice - because I misjudged the placing. Fragile items are moved carefully out of my reach and I am banned from ladders. 

Luckily, my meds were upped on the Thursday, in time for my birthday weekend. The energy returns overnight and I'm able to cook, put things down without dropping them, walk to the allotment without tripping over my own feet. Make it through a work day without my eyes closing. 

You can imagine the relief at being able to function again. Piles of things (okay, mostly my books) have been tidied away, rooms cleaned, washing done and emails whizzed through. I managed a full yoga session. Booked Eurostar, more doctors appointments, a cottage up north, cat sitters and meetings. I cleaned my desk, wrote a schedule, trained some people. 

It's been like Mary Poppins without the disturbing chimney sweeps and trippy animation. 

Sleep occurs at the proper times and I wake feeling refreshed rather than as if I've been clubbed over the head. To sit up straight rather than wanly slumping is to feel a renewed vigour. I terrify clients with my energy and effectiveness. 

I weed, hoe and plant out. Carry full watering cans to the sunflowers, strim back the impudent nettles. And then I sit down, look around me and think "what can I sort out next?"

It's good to be back. 

Writing Wednesday

Well hello there! I woke up this morning, at the reasonable hour of 6am and decided that today is a day I write. This is the most joyful thing about working for myself: I can make that decision. And, as I put in some hours at my desk on Sunday while the football was on, I can do that with a clear conscience. 

This morning I had time to do a quick Spanish lesson, followed by a Scottish Gaelic one. Five minutes of each, via Duolingo. I've been doing the Spanish, on and off, for about 2 years or so but the Gaelic is new and I'm doing it simply because I like the idea of it. So far my favourite word has to be 'snog'. Pronounced snok it actually means 'nice'. Which snogging is, so it all works out. 

My favourite word in Spanish? Esta aqui. Which means 'is here' and feels very grounding. I also like that the 2 can be smashed together: esta aqui snog. Here is nice. 

Which it is. 

Also nice? Narcissi purchased on a whim. 

I've also started doing some exercises I found on the Versus Arthritis website. These are stretches and there are ones for specific areas of the body but I tend to stick to the morning, day and evening sessions. 15-20 minutes, whatever time of day I chose, to keep things moving, muscles supple and joints lubricated (isn't lubricated a dreadful word?). Today, I did the morning ones and then headed for the kitchen feeling in the mood for muesli. 

This I make myself: oats, seeds from pumpkins, sunflowers and poppies, raisins, ginger (good for inflammation caused by arthritis), topped with grated apple and zapped in the microwave for 30 seconds because I don't like cold milk. Do I feel impossibly smug about my virtuous breakfast? Why yes. Yes I do. And should the rest of the day go to pot and I finish it by eating nothing but toast, no matter. I'm ahead of myself. 

Mornings and evenings also involve a dose of swamp juice as prescribed by the no-nonsense acupuncturist. Bless her, she describes it as a little bitter. A better description would be "the cocktail I'll be served when I'm in hell". I follow it with a peanut butter chaser to try and neutralise it. 

Nice too? The first hot cross bun of the year. 

Last night, we finally managed to catch up with the latest Stanley Tucci episode. Oh my. The urbane coolness, the suavity and understated sexiness of the man. And Italy, although Italy's sexiness is more one that flaunts itself with deep eyes, lowered husky voice and suggestive finger running up your forearm. Oof. 

They are a TREAT and I'm spinning out the series for as long as possible. One episode a week least I binge and wake one morning to find myself miraculously conceiving a small child with serious glasses, crisply pressed shirts and a knack with a negroni. 

If you haven't seen them yet, do. But have something delicious to eat at the ready because you will get hungry. 

Always late to a party, I finally got round to reading Normal People at the weekend, having avoided it for a long time on the grounds it was about Young People being young and sexy and I couldn't muster the energy for it, let alone feel like it had anything to offer me. 

Except that it did, of course. Rooney lingers with exquisite precision over the tiniest of details, the cup being placed back on its saucer, the strand of hair, the muted clap of a laptop shutting. Everything is understated but positioned Just So, each word placed carefully. But that's not to say it isn't compelling or that the pace is too slow. She moves it forward, keeps us moving and growing with Marianne and Connell and leaves them at just the right moment. Not perfect, but as near dammit as I've read this year.

Brace yourself for my hot take on a different bestseller from 6 years ago next time.  

And surprisingly nice? A 'virgin' pina colada at a fancy-pants night out for 

International Women's Day last week. It was like a pudding in a glass.  

The wedding invitations are finally complete and at the printers as I type. There has been the usual faff around timings and what to put on the insert and who, of the extensive guest list, we can actually fit into the registry office. I have come down hard against inviting random old friends of N's parents who he hasn't seen for over a decade just because they were at his brother's wedding. And he has come down hard against my nonsense about time and need to be everywhere FIVE minutes before the start. 

Mum is fighting against children being invited (I think she had a bad experience at her own wedding), but we have so many friends with kids, that it seems a shame to ban them and aren't weddings all about family anyway? Besides, parents I know with kids will be overjoyed to have a legitimate reason for a night off and will be unlikely to bring the little treasures along with them. Mum and I are taking a trip to Brum Rag Market in April to buy the fabric for the dress, which will be a relaxed experience in no way ending in a row. 

It will totally end in a row. 

N and I have both come down hard on the subject of presents. A plus of marrying at this advanced age is that we have enough of everything. We have no need for matching etched wine glasses, plates, bed linen or matching dressing gowns. We have enough cutlery, mugs and cushions to see us through to the next world. Anyone buying us a "Live Laugh Love" sign will be banished to the cold outer edges of our circle and then get it gifted back to them at Christmas. So we've opted for donations instead, splitting it between the MS Society and Medecins Sans Frontiere. 

As I type, the utterly, breathtakingly, wonderful news that Nazanin Zaghari-Ratcliffe is at Tehran's airport, allowed to fly back to Britain, has come up on the news. After so many years, this is an incredible piece of good news and a true ray of light on a very dull and rainy day. 

Which is a good note to end this post on. May your Wednesdays have rays of light too. 

And a nice surprise at a client meeting. 

The Full Duck

As you may remember from some posts ago (helpfully signposted by this 'ere blue linky), I have had eczema for a number of years now. It's appearance was gradual and spasmodic for a long time, lulling me into a false sense of "this is manageable" and "if I just cut out cheese, that will cure it". 

Friends, it has been 7 years. There is only so much Stilton this woman can refuse in her lifetime. 

Over those years, I have run the full gamut of interesting remedies in an attempt to look less like I have some disfiguring, contagious disease. There was the black clove oil that was recommended as a drink or topical application. As a drink it made me boke; as a topical application, it sent me shrieking to the bathroom for the soap. There was the giving up cheese, then all dairy, then bread, then all wheat and gluten, then sugar. My poor family, never knowing what to serve me. I was the worst dinner party guest. 

N gave up cooking altogether because he was afraid of making it worse. And if you're wondering how hard it is to quit sugar, let me tell you: bloody hard. It's in everything. It's even in mayonnaise! And gluten-free gravy granules! By all things good and righteous, when has gravy ever needed sugar??

Then there was that month where I tried the SIBO diet (I'm not linking it because it's EVIL) and spent the final week of it eating crisps every night and weeping on the sofa because it's so sodding restrictive and joyless. The Cambridge diet is a barrel of laughs compared to that thing. 

I tried acupuncture, going to see a very nice woman who held my hand, listened to my woes, told me my adrenal gland was out of whack and then stuck some needles in me. It was very nice, like a therapy session only pointier, and I did enjoy the massage at the end, but it cured nothing. 

There's been over the counter remedies, under the counter remedies and remedies that look like they've been scrapped up from the floor behind the counter. Try this cream! Try these herbs! Try this meditation! When I finally braced the Guardians of the Diary, the Gatekeepers of the Knowledge, i.e. the bulldog-like receptionists at my local surgery, I had a telephone appointment with a doctor who sent me a steroid cream. 

Fine, fine, I'll take the damn steroids. And I dutifully applied it. 

Woke up the next morning and thought, "gosh, the world is very blurry", looked in the mirror and promptly screamed, scattering the cats and setting off car alarms all around the city. I'd woken up with eyes so puffy, I was viewing the world through 2mm slits between my eyelashes. I looked like the Stay Puft marshmallow man in Ghostbusters, but with breasts and towering peri-menopausal rage. 

A panicked call to the Guardians later, I was on the phone to another doctor who laughed, LAUGHED (did I mention the towering peri-menopausal rage?), told me a reaction to the cream was highly unlikely so it was probably hay fever, but he'd send along a prescription for the gentle 'baby' version of the cream. Are you surprised when I say I did not get that prescription filled?

Failed by modern medicine, I went back to the Quacks. I think it's safe to say that, by then (2021), I'd run a marathon of quackery and, because a lot of the this damn stuff was on my arms and face, considered having cards printed saying "this is eczema, not leprosy. You are safe to approach" that I could hand out to people in the street to prevent the screaming whenever the wind blew my fringe off my face. I cut a deeper, thicker fringe. Considered hats.  

Then there was the very nice nutritionist who talked a lot about gut health, made me have expensive blood tests and then got me to buy expensive supplements that made not the blindest bit of difference. 

I chickened out of booking a course of sun beds (another suggested cure, something to do with the UV light), I must confess. I meant to go but was completely intimidated by the people manning them. The mahogany glaze to them. The terrifying fingernails. The, oh my dears, over-emphasised eyebrows that seemed to waggle independently at me, signalling that I was out of my depth. The eyebrows don’t lie.

I have avoided totalling up how much this, this, nonsense has cost me. The endless creams, the dietary alternatives, the appointments with specialists, the supplements, and the end result has been a savings account that echoes and skin that still frightens the horses. 

This year, I said to N, I'm stopping this. I need to take a break from it all. This is more than one woman can manage, and this particular woman has had it up to here with other women in health food shops putting their heads on one side and saying "has madam tried this supplement? It's only £45 and your soul for 2 capsules? You need to take 4 capsules a day in water that's been collected under a full moon from half way up Mount Kilimanjaro - the water is not provided, you'll need to gather that yourself. We have an offer today: buy this and get a life time's worth of anxiety for free!"

Up with this QUACKERY I will no longer put. 

Oh, except for this place, this Chinese herbalists, which has had some great reviews, so I'm going to give it a try. This is my last quack of the duck, if you will. 

And that is how I ended up in a room filled with disturbingly detailed anatomical drawings, listening to some truly dreadful "relaxing" music (the CD gets stuck and judders at the same point every week, and I'm forced to listen to the sound of the recorder ddd-dddd-ddd-ing for 30 seconds until she gets up and thumps the CD player) while a woman sticks pins in me and then trains a heat lamp on particular spots. She asks me nothing about what I eat, is utterly unconcerned with any stresses I may have experienced and makes no attempt to jazz up what she's doing. She flicks the needles in with the casual skill of a professional darts player. 

It is practical and, I cannot tell you, a huge relief. Her whole attitude is one of "yep, seen this before, get up there and let's get on with it."

Then I flip over (I say flip, what I mean is that I roll over with the grace of a beached whale and try not to fall off the table) so she can practise the mysterious art of cupping. No, NOT that sort of cupping - get your minds out of the gutter - but the sort that people like Gwyneth Paltrow used to have done. Did I say I was done with quacks and quackery? It seems I have actually decided to go the Full Duck. 

At the end, she pummels me for 10 seconds in a brief, non-relaxing, massage, charges me an extraordinary amount of money, and sends me away with parcels of tea that look and taste like rotting undergrowth. I swear it is the same smell you notice along the canal in the depths of a damp winter. 

And what's my verdict after 4 weeks of going the Full Duck? 

The eczema on my face and scalp has gone. Completely vanished as if it had never been there in the first place. The stuff on my arms, back and knees is still lingering, reluctant to leave a party no one invited them to, but the areas are reduced, not quite so red and angry. I no longer have to hold my hair in place, like a man with a comb-over in a high wind. People no longer recoil in the street. Small children no longer cry when I look at them. Dogs no longer howl and flee. Birds sing and my life feels less like one angry ball of itch. 

Still angry, but without the itch. Bring out the Stilton. 

February Round-Up

This month has passed in a flurry of things, not least of which was the return of the Kid from Sunderland. Sad as he is that the relationship has broken down, he's also overwhelmingly relieved to be back down here and away from what had become (as far as I can tell and I'll never be able to tell all because there are things you don't tell your mother) a pretty toxic situation. 

So, for now, he is regrouping his energies, taking his Nan's dogs for long walks, eating better than he has in a year and studying while he waits to be able to start his new job. 

Tiny Wee Mabel spent most of the storm actually UNDER the duvet. 

She has ideas above her station. 

I had a fancy-pants night out at the theatre last week, to see The Play What I Wrote at Malvern. It was very funny but, oh dear, I’m guessing no one under the age of 40 would even know who Morecombe and Wise were, let alone get half the jokes. It did make me feel very old, even while I was laughing. And it was just lovely to be out with a friend, grabbing an early dinner and generally behaving like I was a Person of Culture. 

Last Wednesday I was in Gloucester for an exhibition and a client meeting. Which was a success. I could hear my bank balance shouting hooray all the way over there. 

College is has been interesting with bits about soil testing and taking all forms of cuttings: leaf, root, hard wood, soft wood. I think a lot of my dissatisfaction with it last year was down to my own physical limitations. At my own plot, I can take my time over digging and the heavy stuff. At college, you have an hour to double dig, so you have to crack on regardless. Of course, I could have told them but, frankly, didn't want to. 

Guerilla Girls nailing it once again. 

Speaking of physicality, I had my long-awaited MRI scan on my foot in January and then the consultant appointment yesterday. At which, as soon as I sat down, he pulled up the images and all but yelled "fucking hell, you have the foot of an 80 year old!" He didn't swear, obviously, but you can bet I did. Having that sort of thing said without any preamble is most definitely NOT a Good Thing and there was a certain amount of shock. 

Next up will be a course of steroid injections and, when I reach the limit of how many you're allowed, an op to fuse the bones. It is what it is and there is, apparently (I asked), nothing I can do to make it better now. I think this will take some processing. 

Trees spotted from a train. Are they dancing or gossiping maliciously

about the new sapling in the next field, who does she think she is, giving

that oak the glad eye? Ooh, I know, doesn't know her place. 

In other news, I've been sowing seeds in my lunch breaks, which is an entirely civilised way of having a lunch hour, and storing them in our dinky new greenhouse. Or I was until the storms of last week nearly lifted the greenhouse off it's feet to see how it would fly. It felt a bit like that moment in the Wizard of Oz where Dorothy is clinging desperately to the house as it's whirled away. Luckily, N emerged from his office in time to hear my shout, so came to the rescue. We wrestled the cover into the shed and left the frame to fend for itself, which it did.

Unfortunately, the wind also rattled the shelves with such ferocity that the seed trays fell off. Result: a big yup of compost and mixed seeds on the floor. God only knows what will end up being planted and where.

Brand new, newly new rhubarb leaf. A sight to gladden

this jaded heart. 

And that's the full extent of our storm damage; we really have escaped lightly. Up at the allotment this morning, all that was changed was the water butt - now lying on it's side - and a branch from the elderly elder was down. It was a mighty relief. 

As was the sight of a brand new, crinkly rhubarb leaf in all it's glorious pink-green colour combination. There were green buds appearing on things, new raspberry and wineberry shoots, birdsong to gladden the heart and a little bit of sunshine to cheer everything on. All's not lost. 

So, What Now?

At some point, in the blissful Before time, when we were locked down but hopeful that 2021 would be the best year EVER, I’d decided to upend my career to see if I could develop one where I ran my own little nursery and basically got to spend every day with plants. 

So I duly jacked in my secure salary, my employer’s pension contribution. Waved goodbye to colleagues I loved working with. Set up freelance to free up (ha!) time to train. Joined the WRAGS scheme. Signed up for an RHS Level 2 course. Spent lots of time at the allotment, practising. Asked my doctor if anyone was actually going to do anything about my arthritis. 

Well, no. No they weren’t. Because it didn't exist, see? Oh, well if I was going to insist - and I was - they’d book a scan but they wouldn’t find…ah. 

They did find. They found extensive arthritis in both feet. Extra bone is growing where extra bone is not necessary. It rubs against the tendons, aggravating them like a persistent toddler, making walking HARD. Making yoga impossible. Making the idea of being on my feet all day laughable, then cry-able.

When I was working in a museum, on my feet for great parts of the day, I could lie on the sofa at night and watch the nerves in my feet jump with such severity, my feet twitch and leap of their own accord. Whilst that's a good trick, it is more than a little freaky. Freaky feet! It's every girl's dream. Most shoes are unwearable (and a plague on those designers). I will never run a marathon. 

To be fair, that last was never going to happen regardless, but now I have a cast-iron reason why it's not. Win!

All throughout 2020 and 2021, I watched as appointments were pushed back and back and further back. I need is a steroid injection but for that I need an MRI scan and there we hit the sticking place. When the poor receptionist called early December to tell me that it was being cancelled again (third time) with no new date in sight, I actually cried and tried to plead my case. Nothing doing. Orders from management. 

Notice how it’s never management who make those cancellation calls. 

Now, this is not the NHS’s fault (although I shake my fist in the general direction of  “management”). It just is what it is in a time of pandemics, sneaky dismantling of the NHS and the chronic underfunding and undermining of what’s left of it. Fault aside, this kind of thing does tend to bring about a reckoning. 

I am living now with two chronic conditions: my under-active thyroid (I like to think of it as the only lazy part of me) - which is an auto-immune condition - and the arthritis (likewise). Which will only spread and worsen with age I, literally, can’t run from this. It needs facing and adapting to. 

So I am. I no longer do yoga (all those downward dogs and planks are Too Much) but I do Pilates and my teacher is aces at helping me adapt postures. I don’t walk too much but I do go to the gym and do core strengthening work: the aim is for seven thousand steps a day because then I’m not in too much pain the next day. I go to the allotment but only for an hour at a time. I am as physical as I can be with the resources I have to hand. 

Obviously, if I feel like hiking up a bloody big hill, then I'll do it anyway and deal with the consequences the next day. I am stubborn like that. And I like being on the top of hills. Or deep in mossy woods where the very air is green and light.  

There's been a lot of research and consultation, which has led to me kicking wheat, sugar and dairy into the long grass. Which is ironic because it will feel like I’m eating nothing but long grass as I up and up my vegetable intake. Right now, my craving for sugar is so bad, I've been staring at a pot of honey for 30 minutes before eating 3 humbugs left over from Christmas. 

Who has humbugs at Christmas? Before you ask, yes I do also quite enjoy a Werther's Original. I know. 

Sadly, that idealised dream of running my own nursery, where I wore sensible but flattering no-nonsense dungarees, I rocked some adorable plaits and my face was permanently shining with good health and cheer, has had to come to an end. I need to be, as N so very often pleads with me to be, sensible. You can’t be on your feet all day when your feet don't work properly. My brother in law is a gardener and he regularly clocks 30,000 steps a day. That would finish me off. I’d need a week to recover. In fact, I did do over 30,000 steps in London and exactly that happened. 

Employers take dim views of such things. So what can I do? 

I'm trying not to post a gloomy, woe-is-me piece. A public breast-beating at the unfairness of life. Life is unfair and I’ve done all that in my own private time - I’m done with it now. Come on Collett*: refocus, recentre. 

Also, I do like a new beginning. It gives me the excuse to buy notebooks and pens that come with the promise of Potential. I can clear my desk and rearrange it, creating the optimal space (there is no such thing, I know). I can sit in my lovely soft-pink office chair (a complete indulgence and tres not practical)

So, what can I do? My little consultancy is still running, because if there's one thing I'm good at, it's sitting down and telling people what to do. This year, I'm developing some training courses and resources, which is both fun and exciting. What else can I do? Well, I can do this. I can write. 

And boy, do I write. Here, there and anywhere that stands still long enough for me to put ink on it. My WhatsApp messages are veritable essays. If I'm asked to create a plan for a room or a garden, I write one. Sitting down with a blank page and hours to fill it makes me giddy. Give me a moment to think and then I'm away, 4 fingers (I'm no touch typist) galloping across the keyboard like wild horses. Thank god for spell checks because they sometimes have the accuracy of wild horses, i.e. none. 

As I type, the 90% complete first draft of a potential first book is sitting next to, waiting for the finish and the first of many, many edits. Want to see a sample? I'm just going to put this PDF first page here and then run away and hide through the sheer embarrassment of admitting publicly that I've written something. 

I like the little thrill of a new adventure, wondering what I’ll be like at the end of it. This one is still unfolding, still developing and I don’t know what will come of it at the end. Perhaps nothing, perhaps something. 

Whatever does, I should be able to do a respectable amount of sit ups at the very least. 

*A family phrase, usually employed when one of us needs to pull our socks up and just flipping well Get On With It, despite various hurdles and things to overcome. Can also be shortened to CoC, which has the added benefit of looking (and sounding) almost rude. Hey, you take your giggles where you can. 

Bimble in the City

At the beginning of November, in what I'm hoping is the last big excusion of the year*, we headed to London (twice in one year!). N had work and I was going for an explore. We were meeting up for the leaving do of one of his colleagues later in the day. 

The weather was perfect: cool, sunny and with that lovely tingle in the air that autumn brings. With strict instructions on how to cross the road (I once was nearly run over in London and only saved by N's quick reflexes...and better road sense), we parted ways on the tube and I headed to St Pancras Old Church. 

Old as in, it is the OLDEST site of worship in London. Tucked away behind the British Library, down past the Francis Crick Institute (where I muttered some rude words on behalf of Rosalind Franklin), and in a clean quiet spot of London, it's rather lovely. 

The church itself is mostly Victorian. Inside it's all whitewashed and sterile with some cracking iconography. Gilt images of saints that flicker in the light of the dozens of candles that people set out. 

I'd been reading about this place and Hardy's Tree and a particular grave, but before I put myself to the task of finding them, there were some substantial monuments to admire...

You've got to hand it to the Victorians, they give good monument. Not for them the discreet little plaque on a bench. At least, not for those that can afford something more splendid. And whilst it might not be practical, it does at least announce "THIS is how much I loved this person. THIS is how much I miss them. THIS is how much money I have to tell you all about them."

Mostly, of course, it's about status and showing off. Our man Morris, back in Kelmscott, kept his and his wife's affectingly simple but then, he doesn't strike me as an ostentatious man, more one that keeps his grief close and private. 

Hardy's tree is fenced off nowadays, so this is as close as I could get to it, which is annoying but I’d mostly come to see a different grave. 

This is the grave of Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin. She of  A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, the key feminist text (not that I've read it but, you know, one day I will. That and the Second Sex). Her youngest daughter, Mary (she of Frankenstein) would meet Shelley, who her father disapproved of (and rightly, in my opinion) there. Scurrilous rumour would have it she lost her virginity to him there. I'm not sure what to believe but a "sublime and rapturous moment" is rare in first-time stories, so I'm not totally on board. 

Mind you, it is exactly the sort of thing Shelley would do. *insert eye roll*

Anyway, back to our girl, Mary W G. I'm pleased to say that after a rackety start which saw her tearing around an unstable Europe after a bloke who was the definition of Not Worth It, she found a like mind, a supporter and a short-lived happiness (she died shortly after M S's birth) with William Godwin. 

I love that Godwin was considered an anarchist, but not where his daughter was concerned. He was furious about her liaison with Shelley and came across all Conservative Papa. I suspect he'd met chancers like Shelley before and had the measure of him. 

Today, people leave offerings on her tombstone. There was a motley but touching collection of small pebbles, shells and flowers on the top. Yes, I did add my own small pebble. Yes, I do always have a small pebble in my pocket. 

Then it was back through London via the British Library and Regents Park, to meet up with N to party the night away, up until the point all that walking caught up with my arthritis and I stopped, like a horse refusing a jump. 

I do need to get better at managing it and, in hindsight, clocking up 30,000 steps in one day is not a better way. Part of it is my refusal to let it stop me doing anything (until it most emphatically does) and part of it is sheer bloody mindedness. Actually, all of it is sheer bloody mindedness. 

But there, that was my last trip to London for a good long while. Now is the time to make soup laden with giner and turmeric, to crochet blankets under more blankets, to drink coffee from a flask at the allotment and watch the winter sun come up. 

Keep well everyone.

*I mean, it's absolutely aces to see everyone again and see things and go places but I'm quite tired now and my allotment needs me.

October, where did you go?

I mean, who decided that time could speed itself up? I would have liked to savour this month, my favourite, but it wasn't to be. It moved at it's own sweet merry pace and I clung onto the sides.

A lot of it has disappeared into the hecticness of work. There have been more than a few working-late evenings and early-start days. Given that I mainly work from home, this is hardly down-the-coalmine stuff. The busiest contract is coming to an end in December and while I shall miss the people and the income, I'm looking forward to having the time to develop ideas I've had for a while. Courses and resources I want to develop may actually see the light of day. 

Speaking of courses, the RHS Level 2 that I started is...okay. The other students are great and I've learned how to take a softwood cutting, and mark out a square with perfectly straight edges and right-angled corners. The module the lecturers selected for us is "Vegetable Growing" and that feels a bit redundant as I already do that. I think I was hoping for something more challenging than an assessment on how well I double dig. But I will probably still learn new things as well, so I'm trying not to be bad-tempered about it. 

 Aware of my general lack of exercise and movement since working from home (I used to easily clock up 20k steps or more when I ran a museum), I brought myself a cheap pedometer and am pleased to report that every day this week, I've broken my target with room to spare. 

This morning, I woke to the sound of rain drumming its beat against the roof. It's quite a comforting sound on a Saturday when I have no plans, limitless tea and a warm Mabel leaning against my leg. I have a couple of candles lit, which I've been doing most mornings this month - sometimes, I sit and stare at the flickering, thinking of nothing. It's the nearest I come to meditation. 

 This week, I had to be in Birmingham for a meeting and it was fab. I do love that city, for all it's faults. We met at the extraordinary Library, ate lunch at the beautiful Ikon gallery after wandering up and over the canal. Shopped at Muji for my favourite pens (0.78 navy blue, thank you) and read on the train home. 

I have been reading Barbara Comyns' Our Spoons Came From Woolworths, but the desire to reach into the pages and soundly smack her selfish, self-serving husband is too great for my peace of mind. A friend came to the rescue with a copy of Luckenbooth, so that's my Halloween reading sorted. 

 I said goodbye to my lovely nutritionist at the start of the month. My excema, while under control, is still here despite blood tests, a veritable alphabet of supplements and nearly a year of restrictive eating. When she suggested yet another limitation, my brain snapped and went "Nope, can't do this any more." So I refused the next blood test, put my 2 remaining appointments on ice till next year and watched my bank balance breathe a sigh of relief. 

Not sure what to do about the excema now. It's still here like a flaky, aggravating pal who doesn't know the party is over. N suggested seeing a doctor. I probably should but can't yet face dealing with the receptionist that guards the appointments. 

 

Still working verrrry slowly on the Attic 24 Meadow blanket. The rest of the world finished theirs in February, it seems. It always takes me a year to finish one, what with one thing and another.

I managed to get the majority of the shallots into the ground at the allotment, and the last of the brassicas in. Now will come afternoons of pruning, weeding, planning and generally tidying up, especially inside the shed. I haven't created the little nest in there that I'd hoped, but maybe winter will be the time to do it. 

In N news, we got engaged. I should have led with that, shouldn't I?? The ring is just about the shiniest piece of kit I've ever worn and I've been married once before, in another lifetime. I do not have a photogenic enough hand for this ring. Plus, I can hear generations of Northern ancestors telling me to Know My Place. But lookit, pretty.

Waiting until it arrived to tell people was the hardest thing: I wanted to run through the streets with a cow bell yelling "Engaged! Engaged!"

The wedding will be next September, hopefully. I am too old for long engagements - they have a habit of drifting on for years with no resolution and I am of the age where 50 is hovering just on the edge of the horizon. I want to feel present. Anchored in a way I haven’t felt since Dad died. 

Plus, I want to gather everyone I know and love and vaguely tolerate together in a field, with wellies under the dress if necessary, and say thank you for being here despite everything, now raise a glass to my Dad, who would have given a better speech.

Be More Mabel

This morning, the Retreat (aka the spare room from which I read, write, work and occasionally yoga) is filled with the dulcet tones of large vehicles reversing and the fragrant smell of hot tarmac that not even the last of the allotment sweet peas can overcome. 

Of course, the noise and fumes would be greatly reduced if I closed the window but then I'd miss out on the breeze that is making this quite humid day bearable. So I'll deal with it for now. Oh no, an angle grinder has started up. Okay, I give in, the window is getting closed. 

There. Better. 

 

Mabel (left) leaping to catch and bring down her mortal enemy - the fearsome Piece of Long Grass

Over the roofs of the houses opposite, the skies are quite low and grey, threatening a rain that might or might not deign to fall on us. The vegetables at the allotment will be grateful if it does. I'm switching to a system of one long watering a week in order to encourage roots and healthier crops, and to reduce water consumption. We have 2 water butts: 1 at home and the other at the plot, but we want to get a second for each. It's likely I'll need 3 or 4 for the plot eventually. 

I like big (water) butts and I cannot lie. 

This week I had the immense pleasure and relief of being pain free in my left shoulder for an afternoon. Such bliss! It seems I managed to tear the muscle somehow and, after my 3rd session of sports massage (during which I'm torn between crying at the pain and whimpering with pleasure because she's unknotting knots that I've carried around for YEARS), I was filled with a flush of happy daydreamy endorphins. Readers, I chatted away merrily, laughed, did silly voices, made jokes, sang made up songs to the tunes of other legitimate songs. 

 And that was all in the car coming home.

It was marvellous and I cannot wait for the next session. It was the most blissed out I've felt for a long time. In fact, it reminded me that I haven't properly laughed for a long time. This year has felt too heavy to allow it, and I don't think I'm the only person to feel that. Emails are full of people saying how worn to the nub they are. 

Sod all this "back to normal" nonsense spouted by politicians. I say we all need a 2 week long holiday from reality. If we did it in shifts, it could be managed for everyone, even those couples with kids. Nothing fancy, just 2 weeks in a cabin in the woods or by the sea, no mobile reception, no work but lots of nourishing food, splendid reads (or things to watch if reading is not your thing), drawing materials and views to feast your tired eyes on. 

 Chonky Thor has a go - he has less leaping energy but does make

better noises

And it has to be on your own because other people, even the ones we love, have needs that must be accommodated and that means compromising on your own needs. 

Think how restored we'd all be as a nation if that were allowed. Start lobbying your politicians now!

Until the happy day that becomes enshrined in law, I am encouraging myself to Be More Mabel. Her intense Mabelness means that her life is largely stress free - barring the occasional run in with the Evil Tabby. Whether it is lounging on a comfortable surface, eating, going about the serious business of chasing things, or keeping tabs on the garden, she devotes her attention entirely to it for a brief period and then wanders off when it all becomes too much or something more interesting comes along.

Such as a particularly enticing butterfly. 

 Certainly this ability to be endlessly curious whilst at the same time attuned to her own needs (bees in the lavender may be irrestible to chase but nothing must get in the way of lunch) is an enviable one to cultivate. She cares not about things that are beyond her sphere of influence but focuses entirely on those that are, such as making sure I know it's time for her lunch. She has actually taken to patting my leg with her paw if I'm not quick enough off the mark. 

Mabel meets the garden wizard (aka the gnome my sister got me. 

It is the only gnome here before you start to get worried).  

And at a time when global news has our attentions and worries scattered like so many marbles dropped en masse from a great height, that is probably the only sane way to keep going. 

Last night we finally gathered ourselves enough to go and see Black Widow at the local cinema before it closed. Gosh, that was a great film. Funny, clever, brilliantly choreographed fight scenes, enough action and bangs to make me jump, a thoughtful arc about family and memory and the connections we build through circumstance. Loved it. Florence Pugh is fast becoming my favourite actress, and I'd watch Rachel Weiss read the newspaper. 

It's a shame that will be the last Black Widow outing. I really feel the character was only allowed the freedom to develop in the last couple of Avengers films, prior to that she'd been supporting the Big Strong Idiot Men. Think how much more we could have explored her character with more films. Opportunity missed again.

Ah, here comes the rain. Good. 

Right then, my hour's blogging time is nearly at an end (I time it by the length of a Backlisted podcast) and my empty coffee mug suggests it's time for a refill. This week I've been mostly reading The Morville Year, The Garden Jungle and working slowly through All the Devil's Are Here, which I'm not entirely sure I like, even though I'm quite partial to a rundown seaside town. Maybe psycho-geography is not my thing?

 

Ubiquitous allotment pic. Because if you haven't seen one, have I even blogged?

What is my thing is the definite tint of Autumn that's appeared in the early mornings. Just enough to brush your fingers gently as you walk alongside the canal, and to mean the duvet is required again. Splendid. 

As a treat, I'll leave you with this clip of Jeremy Hardy singing Hallelujah  in the style of George Formby, a clip to provoke laughter in anyone. I still miss Jeremy Hardy - he was an absolute genius and all round decent chap. We were lucky to have had him on the planet.

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.

My Week in No-Taste

Bed linen. Beer. 

It seems rather ironic that the title of one of this week's most read posts (according to the inscrutable Blogger Stats) is My Week in Taste. Ironic because 2 days after developing Covid, I lost my sense of taste and smell. 

Sweet peas. Smoke from a bonfire.

My nose is not blocked, I am breathing freely, but an olfactory sense of what's going on around me is totally and utterly gone. Several times a day I bury my nose into what I know should smell good and then sigh when nothing registers. 

Mabel's fur. Mandarins and oranges.

I can get a sense of salt or sweet foods. The mackerel pate I whizzed up - a welcome salt tang somewhere among my taste buds but the deep delicious umami of the fish is missing. Likewise, the mango. I know it should taste sweet and my eyes know it but my nose and my brain refuse to work together. 

Nail varnish. N's neck.

The temptation is to keep breathing deeply, at the risk of hyperventilating, but I am trying not to, aiming instead for that wonderful moment when I walk past something, breathing in as normal and think "oh, there you are!"

Cheese on toast. Coffee

It's also tempting to keep eating until my taste buds are galvanised back into action but as everything tastes like cardboard, that’s not a course of action that appeals.

Grass. Geranium. 

Today, I started receiving the faintest of tingles in my nose, preceding the shy arrival of smells. Scents that glanced at me as they passed by, as if flirting. 

Candles just puffed out. Canals on hot days. 

I’m taking in careful breaths. If fragrance were a muscial score, I am currently only picking up the bass notes.

Wet soil. Whisky.

Here's to all the smells in the world. The ones we want, the ones we tolerate and the ones we try to chase out of our homes. 

Tarmac. Tobacco.

January Reading: 2021 in Books

I was pleasantly surprised by how much I managed to read in January. Immediately post-op, in December, I was fine and ploughing through, if at a slightly slower pace. Come the first week in January, an infection set in and scattered my concentration like so many marbles. Nothing written would stick. 

It took me a week to get through The Box of Delights, something that would normally only take me a day. The Living Mountain was even worse, all that lovely lyrical prose... I’d manage a sentence and then put it down in preference for staring, glassy eyed, at the wall. 

 

I'd treated myself to Ring the Hill after enjoying Cox's 21st Century Yokel, and which proved to be a wandering, strange and oddly compelling as that. I do like the way he fits himself into a landscape, actively seeking it out regardless of the challenges. Once my health began to return, I tore through it. 

"A hill is not a mountain. You climb it for you, then you put it quietly inside you, in a cupboard marked 'Quite A Lot Of Hills' where it makes its infinitesimal mark on who you are."

But what really kicked my reading arse into gear was the ever reliable Pym. Some Tame Gazelle was the first I read of hers, decades ago, and returning to it was like returning to an old friend, one who made no judgement but allowed you to find your feet again. 

That was enough to send me back to The Living Mountain which is almost an antithesis of all those men-and-mountain books around. I could amost feel the snow against my face as I read it - just wonderful. A friend lent me the 3 Monica Dickens books, tales of her times as a junior report, cook and trainee nurse, which were hilarious and eye opening. 

Mudlarking finished the month with Laura Maiklem's ode to the Thames and the treasures she's found on its shore. A museum person to the core, I can think of nothing nicer than getting to see her own mudlarking museum, a richness of finds, the lost and thrown away of lives stretching all the way back to the Romans.

 Right now, I have Diary of a Disappointed Man and Homecoming on the go, not to mention Claudia Roden's Book of Jewish Food, which is fascinating. I think I'm almost back to normal, but I'm still hugely distracted by anything that doesn't require much concentration. One sentence at a time, eh?

And at least I'm not having to force my way through a Philippa Gregory like my friend is (she does not give up on books she doesn't like and is growing gradually more annoyed). So tell me, what are you reading right now?

Getting Back To It

It was with some relief that I returned to work this week. As I'm working from home and it involves sitting at a laptop, this is something I can do without worrying about being asked to lift anything heavy. The heaviest thing I lift is the kettle (filled to the minimum required for a coffee boost). I may still be banned from doing any yoga, digging or anything interesting, but I can still use my brain. 

And my brain is glad that I can because it was getting impatient. I could almost feel it itching with ideas and plans, which is always a good sign I'm recovering. That said, one podcast recording, one meeting and an afternoon of emails completely wiped me out, leaving me yawning and barely able to hold a crochet hook by 7pm. 

I'm so much better that I was even allowed out for a walk all by myself last week. True, I did try leaving the house in my slippers (got 3 paces out of the door and realised what I'd done), the pace is slow and the distance not far, but the joy of being able to get out into the air is not to be underestimated. 

 

And then it snowed! And got very icy! A fear of slipping kept me from going outside again for 3 days - I really do not need to fall over right now. Although, I managed to almost take a tumble in my own home by getting my foot tangled with a phone charger cable, so maybe I just shouldn't be allowed to stand up on my own. Or at least move from my seat without supervision. Sadly N wasn't taken with the idea of being my personal watchdog - "mind out for the wool! There's a pile of books to your left!" - on the grounds that he has a proper job what pays the mortgage. 

He has promised that we'll take a trip up to the allotment at the weekend though, so I can't complain about him. 

So far in lockdown we've had surprisingly few rows. The most recent involved him playing The Idles very loudly while he hoovered and I dealt with laundry upstairs. I loathe that band. I mean, really hate them. They make me want to tear off my ears and beat the lead singer into silence with them. I don't know why, I just do. So I did the only reasonable thing and sat upstairs, seething, until the album ended and I could go back downstairs and tell him to put his damn earphones in.

 

It could be said that he was reasonable in asking why I hadn't mentioned it at the start, instead of waiting until the end, by which time I was in the right frame of mind to throw things (I didn't, credit me with some dignity, if not rationality). But I was not in a mood to be reasonable. At least, not until several hours and a bottle of wine later. 

This morning saw a lovely doorstep visit from my son and his boyfriend. They delivered and received belated Christmas presents, and he received a pile of post he hasn't thought to have redirected. That is something he's going to have to deal with soon as they are moving up to Sunderland at the end of Feb. I am trying to gather the tatters of my rationality around me about this - he's not moving to Australia, the house they're getting has a spare room for visits, he's healthy and happy - but it's a close thing. 

Not helped by my recent afternoon organising all my photos into neat digital files. I tumbled right down memory lane to the time when it was just him and me, and the places we visited, the hills we climbed and the books we shared. Lockdown or no, I will be giving him a hug goodbye before he goes. 

 

In other breaking lockdown news, I took a pair of scissors to my fringe in between meetings on Tuesday and instantly regretted it. Usually I trim mere millimeters off so it rests just below my eyebrows, hiding my massive forehead and enabling me to see, but I'd got fed up with seeing all that hair, so grabbed the blunt kitchen scissors and hacked off a centimetre, without factoring in the spring-back effect. 

Oh dear. Released from the weight of itself, the rest of the fringe has sprung up even further, leaving me looking perpetually surprised and slightly lopsided. I find myself tilting my head to one side in Zoom meetings, trying to disguise it. It'll settle down and grow back again, I know but my eyebrows are seriously traumatised by the sudden exposure and my neck is developing a crick in it. 

Really, it's just a symptom of wanting something to change and I'm craving a bigger chop to my hair all over. I'm thinking to the ears, nothing too drastic (I shaved my head once in the mistaken belief I would look like Winona Ryder with her pixie crop - I very much did not), but enough to rid me of all this hair. I keep picking up scissors and putting them down...N may have to hide them before the week is out. 

My attempts at sourdough have all failed miserably. The starters I started refused to develop, lying sulky under a sour brown liquid and giving off a smell that no mother could love. I do not have much luck with bread making under normal circumstances. My loaves always resemble dwarf bread (see Terry Pratchett for that running gag) and could potentially be classed as weapons if dropped from any height over 2 foot. So I called it a day on that Earth Mother dream and ordered some instead. I will feed back (pun fully intended) if it's any good. 

I did once think I'd be an Earth Mother sort of person: keeping chickens, baking bread, hoard of angelic children being homeschooled around me. Then I discovered that chickens smell (and are quite deranged), I can't bake a bread worth eating and children really get in the way of your reading time. And I don't think clogs are acceptable footwear. Besides, I'm not a one for labels - they always seem too much to live up to. 

All photos from a handful of the museums, galleries, hills and beaches I've visited with the Kid. Yes, I am milking this.