Brown Soup Days

We have reached the time of the year, I like to refer to as 'Brown Soup'. The weather has changed from deliciously, invigoratingly frosty to damp and sludgy with rain pouring down from skies that are hanging heavy and low over the landscape. A local saying around here suggests that when a particular hill is wearing its hat (i.e. cloud sitting on the top), the day will be wet. Well, dear reader, more than once recently, it hasn't been so much wearing a hat as burrowing itself under a cloud duvet. 

But these are the necessary rest days and the weather is doing nothing more than helping us slow down and take stock. They are the days where you can stay in the softest clothes you own, catching up on books, tv shows, music that you'd been meaning to all year, if only you had the time. Well, now you do. Say thank you to the weather. 

There are walks, but of the sort that make you scurry home faster than usual. There are gatherings but these have lost the frenetic energy that powers the pre-Christmas ones and we don't mind when someone inevitably dozes off in the corner. There is yoga of the sort that requires lying down rather than pushing through some kind of core workout. These are not the days to push through (unless you're in active labour), but to rest. 

These are also the days for clearing out. What no longer serves is being taken out of its habitual hiding place, shaken down and held up to the low winter light for inspection. We have donations for the charity shop, items listed on Freecycle and boxes of memories packed away for the attic: the postcards and birthday cards and ticket stubs and ephemera of life that will have no relevance to anyone but us, but still they remain and we can't quite bring ourselves to throw them out. 

Somehow, despite resolutely not buying anything of the kind, we find ourselves with boxes of mince pies, biscuits and chocolates. Not many, but more than we would normally buy in a year. Some have gone to the foodbank, but they appear to have reproduced in the way boxes of that sort do and are part and parcel of the feasting and gluttony we do to shore us up against the cold and bitter days to come. 

To counter all this sugar, I make brown soup from leftovers in the fridge. The rain is tapping gently at the window and I can see the thin branches of the acer whipping about in the wind. We haven't seen the fish since November as they've taken themselves down into the warmer depths of the pond. I have a large pan of stock coming to the boil on the stove top and Kirstie Young is talking about her desert island discs in the background. Above me, I can hear the bump-buzz-thunk of the hoover being pushed about the floor. 

On the chopping board, leftover roast potatoes, carrots, sprouts, swede and parsnips are neatly (ish - this is not a beauty competition, this is Brown Soup) cubed and waiting to be added to the stock. My phone pings with a message from an old, old friend saying they would be delighted to see us for japes and larks, or, more sensibly, scrabble. 

Cheered by the news, I reach back into the fridge for the leftover turkey, pigs in blankets and stuffing. Just a handful or 2, enough to add some protein and some of that gorgeous sagey flavour. The cat flap bangs and seconds later Mabel headbutts my leg vigorously, loudly demanding biscuits. Her fur is cold and damp, thick and fluffy in its winter condition. She's been patrolling her patch, defending the borders against the evil tabby, and her eyes are glowing green with triumph. I feed her. 

A quick step into the garden for some lemon thyme. Shake the rain from my hair and pull the leaves from the stems. 

Everything in the pot, I leave it all to simmer while I occupy myself watching the weather beat against the house. The black-eyed susans were finally forced into giving up flowering during the cold snap and now the stems that wound so vigorously around the jasmine during the autumn are hanging limply, like so many bored socialites, all limp and jaded greenness. Hanging from them are raindrops like glass beads and, in that delicious betwixt times kind of way, I let my thoughts drift while watching them drip. 

The smell of soup, and the silence of the hoover, brings me back to the now and I turn my attention to the tricky business of tipping the contents of the steaming pan into the blender: have I misjudged the amount of stock and it will all overflow? Have I misjudged the angle of the tilt-and-pour and am about to have a counter liberally covered? Luckily the answer is no. Blend, noisily, for 30 seconds. Tip the resulting liquid back into the saucepan and back onto the hob. 

Taste, season, add a glug of Worcestershire sauce - the proper stuff. My, this is a brown soup indeed. Thick and rib-sticking, it promises to cure all ills, to coat your bones in a comforting umami hug. It will win no beauty prizes, but it will see you right, cutting through the gluttony, the sugar highs and lows, the hangovers and the hang-unders. 

It brings both my boys to the table where we break bread and nourish together, facing the oncoming change of the year. 

A note on the image above: I can't find the name or reference for this, although I am getting a hint of Vanessa Bell, maybe? If you know, can you let me know so I can credit properly? 

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. 

Folding Away

Earlier this week, as I sat in the quiet cafe, music playing quietly enough for me to ignore it and, on the yellow formica table top in front of me, a hot chocolate cooling from molten lava temperature, I paused in my reading to look up and consider the question that has stumped philosophers for centuries...

Is there anything more comforting and more guaranteed to give you a feeling of wellbeing than sea-cold toes thawing in warm dry socks while you drink hot chocolate?

Some serious consideration of other comforting things - the first chilly night under a winter duvet, a hug from someone you genuinely want a hug from, soup and toast, a cup of tea after a night on the tiles -  I have to tell you, dear readers, that no, there is nothing more comforting than that. 

With one of the eternal mysteries of life solved, I returned to split my attention between the second book of the day and that hot chocolate, upon which the crest of whipped cream was slowly, tantalisingly, melting down the side of a mug so big, I could have put my head in it. 

I'm not long back from a quick break to the sea where I did little else other than watch the waves, eat, walk, sleep. Repeat for 2 days. I spent some time picking up pebbles and examining them. I spent even more time reading and writing (took 6 books with me and read 5, leaving Shuggie Bain for a time when I can deal with desperate poverty and lost lives, i.e. not yet). It was bliss and I came back feeling both well fed and well rested. 

I did, despite my age and the fact everyone else over 40 on the beach were wearing sensible stout boots and walking shoes, paddle barefoot in the shallows. Why would you not? Yes, it might have been so cold I could barely feel my feet after 5 minutes and, on 1 occasion, actually raining, but I hadn't gone all that way to not get my feet wet. 

If anything, I just wondered at the people in the stout boots. Did they not want to recapture that feeling of childish glee, that abrupt sucking in of breath that comes when the foaming waves carry themselves over your toes and you realise the water temperature is closer to ice than bath?

Their dogs weren't so inhibited and bounced soggily up to me hoping I was carrying biscuits or would throw the salt water dripping ball for them. Some just wanted a pat and 1 enthusiastic retriever (is there any other sort?) wanted to pause a foot away from me to give himself a vigorous shake. The owner was mortified. 

I just laughed and mopped up the worst with my scarf. That scarf did a lot of standing in for a towel over the 2 days. 

Going through the photos, I realise I mostly took closeups of rocks and pebbles because I find them fascinating and have promised myself to, one day, properly get to grips with geology. No fossil finds, but lots of lovely glittering lines of quartz running like galaxies through the rock. 

I've kept a couple of little videos of the sea on my phone to return to when times get stressful. Which they will. I'm learning to take those times as part of the ebb and flow of life (I do this at the age of 45? Truly I am the enlightened one!) and not to let the stress overwhelm. Let it flow, man, it'll pass. 

And whilst it was tempting to burst back home and insist to N that we "move there instantly and run a little B&B and I will run a craft shop as well and you will run your garden design business and it will all be splendid", I resisted. I think sometimes he takes these flights of fancy seriously and then frets that he'll come home one day and the house will be for sale. Maybe, if I was 25 years ago but still the me I am now, I'd take them seriously too. 

For now, they are daydreams occasioned by being in a nice place and having the usual irksome details of daily life (who's turn is it to cook, who did the last lot of laundry, did you feed the cats already, why are your shoes there?) left behind. 

For 48 hours, I could allow myself to focus on nothing but the sea and the tides. I embraced that lovely Italian idea of far niente, pleasant relaxation in carefree idleness. Something we don't do enough of as adults. I saw no news, no social media and no emails. I did gaze for a long time at the sea, and the long bluing horizon. 

So I'll fold those impossible daydreams away with the post-holiday washing, put them on the shelves with the strange rocks, and not think of them again until I'm back there. Or somewhere else with cobbledy streets, pastel coloured houses and a pub serving the best seafood I've eaten in a long time. 

And for the next week, whenever I turn out of a pair of socks or my bag or a coat pocket, and a small gift of sand sprinkles the carpet, I'll allow myself a moment or two of unfolding. 

Sprung Days

Caster sugar with rosemary flowers for which to make biscuits.

Not cookies, biscuits. 

This afternoon, I am going to write for pleasure. This is after having spent yesterday trying to write for cash and failing miserably, (and having written most of this post TWO DAYS ago). Sometimes, I do not feel able to dredge up yet another metaphor for "this is a really good project! People will like it! Come ooonnnnn!" and yesterday was one of those times. Better to knock it on the head at 4 and take myself off to the allotment. 

Where the rosemary is in full bloom, narcissi are springing up and there were ladybirds clustered around the new growth of the fennel. The skies were blue, the birds were singing, it was bliss. The woman who runs the nature reserve CIC on the site stopped for a chat, looking almost drunk on the swelling of spring. 

"I'm not on drugs!" she proclaimed loudly. "It's just, in there, it's..." she waved her arms back in the direction of the wood and trailed off. "Just wow." Safe to say, her serotonin levels were off-the-chart high. I have rashly agreed to help write some funding bids so I now have to find new, unpaid ways of saying "this is a really good project! People will like it! Come ooonnnn!" but it's for a good cause, so I don't mind that. 

After she'd gone, N and I dug and raked for a while before calling it a day. I was extremely pleased to find my arms still working after the weekend. For the new wardrobe had arrived last Friday and the long postponed redecorating of the Retreat got underway. 

There was a day of painting, a weekend of construction and a further day of finishing touches. And my arms, oh those poor arms: I wasn't able to do anything with them other than flail around like Father Ted and his fake arms for at least a day. 

It was exhausting, and not exactly the fun weekend the Kid had in mind when he came to stay and found himself deputised to holding important pieces of the new wardrobe while N cursed and drilled and banged, but it is done and I'm so pleased with the result. 

The walls glow like apricots in Mediterranean sunshine, the space where I work is screened off from the spare bed by a bookcase, meaning I no longer look like I've rolled out of bed and straight into a Zoom call. Well, I do, but that's more a matter of unwillingness to use a hairdryer than it is to do with the fact there is a bed in the background. I keep leaning to one side so people can clock the improving titles on the shelves behind me and be suitably impressed. 

Part of the finished (almost) room. That green

painting, bottom middle, was one the Kid painted when 

he was small. 

N's Mum is finally out of hospital. I didn't mention this before as, until we knew she was going to be okay and home again, it wasn't my place to. She was in for 8 days after a series of falls that no one was quite sure of the reason for. Was it her MS, or maybe mini strokes, or - oh no, there it is, dehydration. So easy to dehydrate when you're elderly, disabled and the idea of having to hoick yourself around is frankly exhausting, how much easier to refuse that cup of tea, ignore that glass of water. I know my Nan often did the same thing. 

Anyway, she is better now and back home with a full care package that has been much needed but not set in motion before because his parents are quiet people who do not want to make a fuss or be a nuisance. And the quiet, no-nuisance people always fly under the radar. It's been a worrying time. 

In the greenhouse, seedlings are unfurling ever skywards. Rocket, cabbage, cauliflower, lollo rosso, sweet peas and other flowers, spring onions. There are even 2 tentative tomato shoots. On the windowsill, a new batch of seeds are beginning to germinate, including radish, parsnip, dill, basil, courgette and, rather exotically, luffa. Oh yes! This year I am going to try my hand at luffa growing, then I shall have a ready supply of scrubby cloths. Will keep you posted on that progress. 

Tiny Wee Mabel is also infected with the joys of spring - we've barely seen her for the past few days. She comes in, shouts, eats, leaves. Eventually returning late at night to sleep. The fox sounds have died down now and there have been limited sightings of the evil tabby who used to persecute her, so she's making the most of it. 

Tiny Wee Mabel: slightly boss-eyed, 

extremely shouty

The Great Boo, on the other hand, has taken no more notice of spring than he did winter. Still sleeping in the radiator hammock, still sitting silently by his food bowl and attempting to look half starved, still regarding Outside with suspicion. The only change has been that he now sits on the lawn and occasionally we hear a small thud which is him smacking at tiny flies in the grass. 

The sky is bright again today. This morning, awake very early, I decided to take myself off for a walk. Unsurprisingly, my footsteps took me along the canal where the birdsong was a delight. Standing there for a few minutes, no one around but the woman failing to bring her spaniel puppy to heel, I could quite understand why you feel a little drunk after a day spent in the middle of it. 

Sadly, that wasn't to be. I've been back home and ploughing through my to do list since 8am. Feeling like a 4pm knock-off is in order. 

The Great Boo: off his tiny rocker on catnip

Oh, I've just read that Dagny Carlsson, the world's oldest blogger has died at 109 (you can, if you can read Swedish, read her blog here). I love that she was referred to as a 'blogger and influencer'. Better her than one of the Kardashian nitwits. I wonder if I'll still be blogging at 109? What a thought to start the weekend on!

I think it's hard

to know what to write in these days. The news is bleak and it is easy to feel small and lost and guilty for continuing to live your life. And the worry-worry-worry of what might happen next keeps building. 

You already know this, but it is okay to feel all of those things and still get up to make the dinner, go to work, complain about towels left on the floor, feed the pets, tend the garden, buy the groceries, change the bed sheets. 

You already know this, but it is okay not to have a hot take on what's happening, or to be absolutely up to the minute on the evolution of dictators, or to have single-handedly arranged a donations drive and hired the van and driven it across borders. It is okay to not know how to respond to yet another news story, it is okay to feel overwhelmed. 

You already know this, but it is okay to make plans to meet with friends next week or for holidays next month or only for the next day because that's as far ahead as you can see right now, beyond that seems too black and menacing for plans. 

You can feel compassion and anger and fear about what is happening, whilst at the same time be consumed by the minutiae of your life, the thousands of ways your days play out. The threads that run through your life like a mycorrhizal network, connecting you to the ones you love. This network that you have created, carefully tended and that nourishes your life. 

There is space inside you for all of that. That is what makes this giant experiment called humanity what it is. 

Things I will do while I can still do them:

• cook, eat, repeat
• read, sleep, repeat
• support N and the Kid
• meet up with friends
• make bunting for the wedding
• plan a trip to see more friends
• choose my news sources wisely
• tend the allotment
• decorate the Retreat
• write, work, repeat
• fret, worry, feel guilty, repeat
• donate, donate, donate

"I am washing my face before bed

while a country is on fire. 

It feels dumb to wash my face and 

dumb not to. 

Someone has always clinked a

cocktail glass in one hemisphere as

someone loses a home in another, 

while someone falls in love in the 

same apartment building where

someone grieves. The fact that 

suffering, mundanity and beauty

coincide is unbearable and 

remarkable."

Mari Andrew

Of Waste Puritans and Freezer Gods

In this household, 'waste' is a dirty word. Neither of us approve of it and try to reduce wherever we can. Vegetables looking a bit ropey? Soup! Leftover pasta or rice? Bake! Remnants of a roast? Pies! Mysterious jars of things that have been open too long? 

Oh. Okay. Some things have to be thrown. Please do not use that 3-year-old open jar of chutney in anything. 

In general, I'm quite good at remembering to freeze things at the time of discovering there is too much. Partly because we are Waste Puritans, doomed to poke through fridges and hold things up in an accusatory way, intoning our chant "Did you mean this to be a complete waste of money?" We scourge ourselves with the last wrinkled spring onion from the vegetable drawer and you bet we get invited to all the parties. 

Also partly because I then have meals 'in the bank' for those days where I cannot face another session at the kitchen counter. Usually on a Monday and Thursday when I'm late back in from Pilates/college, and I'm cold with all my senses urging a bath, not an hour cooking. 

And so it was, last Friday, I found myself with a mass of veg, a mostly picked over chicken carcass and, lo!, a wodge of homemade pastry in the freezer. I duly defrosted this and set to.

Leeks, mushrooms, celery, garlic and courgette were chopped into tiny pieces and cooked gently for a long while in a ladleful of stock with thyme thrown in for good measure. I picked over the very last of the chicken and shredded the pieces, throwing them in to seethe and simmer with the veg. It smelled amazing. 

I rolled out the pastry and laid it carefully in the quiche dish, muttering under my breath and patching as I went because if there is one thing gluten-free pastry does not have, it's structural integrity. It will break and tear and you will be forced to patch it regardless of your best efforts at delicacy. 

Let the mix cool slightly while you blind bake the pastry case for however long at whatever temperature. In my case, that was for the duration of time it took me to win that day's Wordle and walk to the postbox, and at 150 fan oven. 

Carefully tip the mix into the pastry case, avoiding the bit where it's shrunk away from the dish. Smooth over and then bake for another 30 mins. Serve with salad or extra vegetables of choice and roast potatoes because the world is always better for roast potatoes. Eat. 

At the eating point, I became aware of something I am not particularly good at. Labelling items in the freezer. 

Yes, friends. That was sweet pastry I had lovingly defrosted and used, all the while patting myself on the back with the Parsimonious Parsnip of Smugness. Specifically the sweet pastry I had used to make mince pies last year but neglected to label as I put the leftover in the freezer. 

Reader, I ate it regardless. And didn't mention it to N, who also ate it regardless. It was not bad, just ODD and I certainly wouldn't do it again (unless the Freezer Gods dictate that I shall) but it was edible. Which was the main thing and allowed me to continue to wear the habit woven from stale breadcrusts handed out to all us Waste Puritans. 

I find the trick is to not tell anyone about the pastry until it's all been eaten. So I might tell N later today. After his lunch. 

January Blathering

 A truly wondrous thing happened yesterday…brace yourselves…we opened the attic hatch!

I know. Extremely brave of us. And I say ‘us’ loosely because it was just N up the ladder. I don’t do ladders. 

Anyway, when we brought the house back in 2019, we’d been completely stymied about how to open the hatch (don’t laugh). Then my neighbour had given dire warnings about the depth of the insulation and how he’d had to have it boarded over before he could use it. So we pretended it didn’t exist until this year when I had a small, totally reasonable, meltdown about how much I hated tripping over the boxes of Christmas decorations in July and other assorted detritus of life that were better placed in an attic out of sight and reach of toes. 

This then prompted an overdue January clear out of things upstairs. So many things that a black bin back was required for the first time in about a year (I really do try to keep our general rubbish levels down). Do you do a Big January Clearout? It's incredibly cathartic, almost a meditative act if you don't go at it like a bull in a china shop, which only results in more, broken, stuff being thrown away. 

Tiny Wee Mabel giving the world her best side-eye as she's

cross about the cold turn the weather has taken

I'm no Marie Kondo (gods forbid) but I do like the process of opening a corner/cupboard/drawer/box and working through the contents one by one. Looking at them and recognising that, if they've been in there 5 years and never looked at, it's time for them to go. In my case yesterday, that was scraps of fabric, a box of rusty pins, varying lengths and tangles of embroidery threads, remnants of wool not long enough to make anything with, wrapping paper that was too creased and crumped and sellotape-marked to reuse, broken buttons and knitting needles, and other random items that I'd once thought would have a purpose but turned out not to have. 

Where once there was an overspill of chaos and failed projects, there is now a contained order in labelled boxes on neat and clean shelves. It won't last but while it does, I go and stand in front of them every now and then just to appreciate the scene. 

It's representative of the more ordered me I like to tap into every now and then. She doesn't make an appearance very often. 

Just a happy Boo in his box. 

Also on the agenda at the weekend was a visit to the wedding venue. After a false start with a place that looked enchantingly like an Ewok village but had no wheelchair access or facilities beyond some basic toilets, we finally hit upon a place that has enough of a Wild Place look about it for us to be happy. 

As you can be sure there will be a lot more of that in the months to come, I'll leave it for the time being. Once we've got the Great Guest List Row out of the way. 

Last night I started crocheting myself a hat. I've been at a bit of a loose crafty end since finishing the last Attic 24 CAL in time for my Mum's birthday back in December. I've taken the time to do some repairs (pockets in jeans, buttons on shirts etc) but my next crochet project (which I can't mention here in case they read about it) won't start for another couple of weeks. I'm not doing the CAL this year as I feel I need to use up the wool I already have rather than buy another big bag of more. 

Glowering skies over the allotment

Plus my ears were really really cold when we were doing root cuttings at college last week. A fascinating process and I'm really hoping the phlox I used actually take. The soft-wood cuttings we did a few weeks back did very well until they did too well and I didn't pot them on in time, so they died. The leaf cuttings are just sitting there as if to say "What?", practically shrugging at me. I love the process of taking cuttings but I'm not convinced the plants are so keen. 

Anyway, my ears were cold and I don't have a hat, so I'm making myself one out of fetching dark red wool that's quite fluffy and has a wee bit of sparkle in it. I was given the wool years ago, so it's nice to finally have a purpose for it. 

In other news, I'm unofficially doing Dry January, alcohol being one of those inflammatory things that I'm trying to avoid, as well as Buy Nothing January, which is not something being marketed far and wide as A Thing, but the result of noticing that, really, I have everything I need, so why buy more? Honestly, I'm feeling very virtuous and smug about it all. Veering dangerously onto the path of Puritanism? Nah. Too many rules. Just an attempt to live more lightly on the planet. 

Took a walk in the park and successfully identified a 

Prunus serrula (Tibetan Cherry) by it's bark. 

I signed up for the George Saunders newsletter. Heard of him? He wrote one of my favourite books, Lincoln in the Bardo, a few years back and I've got his latest, A Swim in the Pond in the Rain, on order at the library. He releases an e-newsletter every week or so (if you're on the free list, which I am) and he set an intriguing writing exercise yesterday, involving a word and time limit. I may try it later this week. 

On the subject of books, I read John le Carre's Call for the Dead yesterday, which was slim but excellent. It's interesting that as uninterested in the Cold War as I am, he can still draw me in and I'm a little in love with the shambling Smiley. And I'm also ploughing through Pandora's Jar, despite not being particularly interested in Greek mythology. But Natalie Haynes is a chatty writer and entertaining to boot, so it doesn't feel like a slog. 

And here I shall leave you to return to some proper work. As much as I enjoy letting free a long stream of blather, there are things to attend to. As we plunge into the dark and rainy second week of January, I wish you all a good one. Hope it's full of warming meals, warming fires and warm toes. I'm off to throw a jacket potato in the oven. 

Ditto this Cornus alba 'Sibirica'. 

Seasons Pleasings

It’s okay, I’ll stop after this one, I promise. But I wanted to mark this Solstice with a little glimpse at things that have provoked sighs of deep contentment and let me think that, for just that moment, all is right in the world. 

Misty days where the cloud hung low, clinging to the tree tops, blurring the city lines and lending an air of mystery to my trip to the allotment, where I dug in some well rotted manure (courtesy of my friend's Shetland pony), admired cobwebs bejewelled by the damp air, and watched millipedes weave, like bright copper threads through the earth. 

It was an early start to the Sunday but my feet were toasty in thick socks and wellies. No one else was at the plots, just me with what sounded like hundreds of birds shouting their territorial rights, the chime of distant bells and the satisfying thunk of the shovel in the damp earth. 

I love misty days. They make me happy all the way to my toes and I can't wait to get out and walk in them. 

Last Friday, I took a trip to see colleagues, one that involved 2 trains there and 3 back, a cancelled train, a detour and a shouty woman on the final leg. As I reached my front door, I could see the lights on the wreath and the tree glowing through the window. Once inside it was warm, full of cats and N pleased to see me back, smelling nicely of pine, cloves and home. Settling into the sofa with a glass of wine as deep as a plunge pool and an M&S prawn sandwich, blanket over my chilled feet, fending off messages from Mum, N asked why I was sighing. 

I hadn’t realised I was, but they were the sighs of deep and blissful contentment. It was good to be home. 

Making jumbleberry jam to give to people I love over Christmas. A mix of raspberry, Japanese wineberry and blackberry, jam sugar and lemon juice. The longest part about making jam? Gathering the fruit. But that’s also the best part. 

The house smelt of sugar, fruit and that indescribable whiff of summer. 

Although the skies have been too shrouded to see the full moon, a week or so ago, I'd managed to capture it completely by accident as I stopped to take a photo of the lights at the local church. When I got home and looked back at the photos, I could see it, photobombing over the church's shoulder and looking might splendid. 

See? Splendid. It reminded me of that Jaffa Cake advert from looooong ago. Repeat after me: Full Moon, Half Moon, Total Eclipse!

A friend and I took a bimble around Malvern at the weekend, something we haven't done for a while. I dropped an astonishing amount on books (both new and second hand), and then we happened upon what is the winner of my own personal Christmas window contest...

Inside the shop was warm and bustling with the ever-cheerful owners and staff taking time to chat to everyone through the muffling of our masks. Later, we ate rum and walnut chocolate cake, exchanged presents and parted, determined to do more bimbling next year. 

Today I finish work, not back to my desk until the Thursday after Christmas*. The Kid comes home on the 23rd and I will attempt the Meringue of Folly on Christmas Eve. It's not really a peaceful time of year, but I am still going to make the most of not having to switch the computer on at 8 in the morning, of being legitimately allowed to eat After Eight mints for breakfast, to make turkey stuffing sandwiches, to watch old films. To hunker down. To take the Kid on long hill walks with flask and aforementioned sandwiches. 

To make plans and daydream.  

However you spend this time of year, and whoever you spend it with, I wish you all a very Good One indeed. Thanks for keeping stopping by here over this strange, untidy year. 

(*although I may possibly pop back here during the festive break because I don't seem to be able to keep away - even when I have Proper Work to do) 

Chuntering Nonsense

I'm currently writing this from underneath my duvet, my trusty red scarf around my neck and a Small Wee Mabel stretched out over my toes. Why this level of decadent comfort and unusual cat closeness? The boiler has packed up. 

 

Oh yes, just in time for unspecified "spell of winteriness" (genuine quote from local weather forecast). 

I went out for a walk with a friend, leaving N and the boilerman chatting happily about annual service, bleeding radiators, blah blah temperature controls blah, and returned to find the house cold and N chatting less happily on the phone about circuit boards, replacement parts blah blah, soon as you can blah.

"Soon as you can" turns out to mean £350 quid for a replacement circuit board and we'll see the man in 2 days time to fit it. Marvellous. 

Although it's annoying to be wearing scarves and 4 layers indoors, it's not really an inconvenience. We have hot water still, thanks to the immersion heater. The oven still works so a decent bout of stew making means the downstairs is warm in the evening. We have 2 portable electric heaters that warm our offices during the day and there's a shop down the road selling hot water bottles if I get really desperate. 

I once sat a mock exam in an unheated school gym in the middle of winter during a particularly vicious cold snap. My friend and I took in 2 hot water bottles each: 1 for our feets and 1 for our middles. I am not at that stage yet. 

That old Christmas thing is looming ever closer into view from the Titanic that is life right now. In what is surely the closest sign that we are engaged and Officially Committed, N has asked me to buy him clothes. 

Oh the pressure!

Is the wool of that jumper too itchy? Will I upset him if I buy a shirt a size up to cover the wee paunch of lockdown belly he's proudly sporting? Is that colour going to make him look jaundiced or in fine fettle? Are the necklines on those t-shirts going to fit just right or make him feel like he's being strangled? Am I buying things that would suit a middle aged man and not the young thing he still envisages (until he has to dig on the plot when age suddenly bites)?

Obviously, I'm aware of the honour presented to me like it was my own Christmas gift ("buy me clothes - I haven't had anything new for years and you like buying clothes"), but still. Pressure. And before you ask, no. He does not get to buy me clothes. 

I've been very much enjoying finding new routes around my city. On Sunday, I needed the library but instead of taking my usual main route, I turned off down what I'm now renaming Urine Alley (okay, that bit was not enjoyable) and walked some back streets, enjoying the feeling of being sort of not sure where I was but also vaguely sure I was going in the right direction. And if I got completely off track, I could Google Map my way out of trouble. 

Found: little micro-breweries I didn't know were there, curious houses with odd angles to them, ghost signs for long gone businesses, intriguing front gardens with yellow painted doors, wrought iron lampposts that brought Narnia to mind and the delicate tracery of ivy roots on brickwork. Someone had piled books on their garden wall and a sign in wonky black pen told us to "help yourself!". By another front gate, there was a grate of mouldering apples with a similar sign but in crayon. 

I took one to fortify myself for the return journey. It was a cooker, not an eater. 

This month I have read Wintering by Katherine May - an exploration of our physical and emotional reactions to times of stress and difficulty. How our natural reaction is to hunker down, retreat, hibernate, winter. I liked very much the concept and the book is gently written, plus it's always nice when a book validates how you are feeling/behaving.  

On the topic of books, I'm very much enjoying a foray into essays and thinking by women. Next up is Rebecca Solnit's Wanderlust, an exploration of walking. Which may sound silly but I love an aimless amble (as you've just read) and there can be something very profound and powerful about the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other... "Walking, ideally, is a state in which the mind, the body, and the world are aligned..."

The clock on the nearby church has just chimed to remind me it's time to get on with some real work. Spoilsport. I'm enjoying writing more and more these days, excited for the minutes I can snatch away from proper, paying work and spend them chuntering on about nonsense. I'm not sure there's a career in that though. 

Certainly not one that pays for unexpected boiler bills. 

I posted this on Instagram the other day and then spent HOURS worrying people would 

ascribe hidden meaning to it. There is no hidden meaning, I just like the way the smoke looks against

the blue of the walls. Sometimes a blown candle is just a blown candle.  

Other images: blue skies over the allotment. Sometimes November really pulls it out of the bag. 

Of Breads and Beds

 The Kid went back up to Sunderland last Friday, leaving me feeling somewhat bereft - there have been too many goodbyes this year. At least I sent him home fully stocked with casseroles, train snacks, carrot cake and my flask with coffee in it. I can't fix his relationship or make the government properly fund his work or change the housing market so there's the slightest possibility he won't be at the mercy of shitty landlords all his life, but I can make sure he's nourished while he copes with it all. 

 

 

While he was here, we played at tourists in our own city for a day. We took a long walk along the canal, all the way to where it opens out into the river, pausing to watch a barge navigate a lock, which I like watching but which also gives me the weirdies. 

From there, we wandered up to the cathedral to look at Arthur's tomb, the tiny carved fantastical creatures on the misericords and incredible ceilings. Then to lunch where I had the nicest lightest gluten free focaccia I have ever had. Bit of a treat and makes me wonder why so much gluten-free bread is so bloody awful. I once ordered some from a company that claimed they had been developing their recipe for their own gluten-free needs. 

 

 

All I can say is that their needs must have been of the battering-thine-enemy-with-baked-goods kind. Not a heavier bread have I ever lifted or attempted to chew my way through. Never mind avoiding swimming after eating, I was avoiding puddles. 

Today is the day I phone the vet for the Great Boo's test results. A week before we went down south, he went missing. Having owned many cats over my lifetime, I didn't think we'd ever see him again but N was more determined and through the concerted use of Facebook Lost & Found pet pages and the Next Door app (no, me neither), he was found 3 miles away, about 100 yards from the M5. 

 

 

THREE miles away? This is a cat we had to cut a hole in the fence for because he couldn't manage to jump over it and we were tired of our neighbours ringing the front door bell to tell us he was sat outside the gate waiting to be let in. He did not travel 3 miles under his own steam.

Regardless of means (and I have dark suspicions), he was found safe and well after an hour of scouring the streets yelling "Boo! Come on Boo!" like idiots (thanks to Dylan and Emily for joining in the shouting with gusto and providing a cat box at short notice). A little thinner, he generally seemed fine. 

 

 

But he is not fine. Patches of bald skin are appearing in his fur, his pupils are dilated 80% of the time (the time he's awake anyway) and he's clearly on high alert all the time. The vet thinks stress ("Hello! I'm here to diagnose the bleeding obvious and then take £90 from you!") but ordered some tests anyway. Results are overdue. 

Also overdue is a response from a company I'm now referring to as The Worst Bed Company in the World. Their name begins with B and ends with S, which is ironic as that's the same as the word I've been shouting every time their crappy, over-hard, completely unyielding mattress has woken me with cramp, pins and needles and general discomfort so great that at 4am, all hope of sleep is lost. I've pretty much given up sleeping on it and moved into the spare room. 

If anyone likes mattresses that feel like it's punishing you for a misdemeanour in a past life, let me know. It's yours for £600 and an incantation of evil directed at B_____S

'At sunrise, hope; at dusk, peace" - unless your mattress

comes from B_____S, in which case, no.

 

A Life in a Day

N is digging out the bricks that form the border to the garden flower beds, I am swinging in my hammock chair and watching him (I had spent the afternoon at the allotment that day). We are chatting idily - by which I mean, I am chatting, he is wondering why I've chosen now to do so when I can clearly see he's busy - when it happens. 

"Alright mate?"

Chatty P, 2 doors down, has just performed his customary evening greeting to our immediate neighbours. He has returned home from work, got himself a drink, wandered out into the garden and looked over the fence to make sure they're there. And commenced conversation as above.

At that moment, Tiny Wee Mabel who, in truth, is no longer tiny but long and sleek and spiky, comes sauntering in from her explorations to enquire, loudly, where her dinner is. I remember that I haven't taken courgettes over to our other neighbours. 

Yes, its that time of year and, once again, neighbours flee from the sight of me bearing down on them, for I have planted too many courgette plants and come bearing gifts of which they are heartily sick. Although A does make a good job of looking pleased and we chat for a short while about their children (2 and 4) and how everyone's been. That usual neighbour conversation: we know how we all are because we can hear each other, but we pretend otherwise. 

And none of us mention the new neighbour who's moved in with 2 teenagers who use Alexa to communicate ("Alexa, tell Mum I want my tea!"), a lot of visitors in big cars and a good line in raucous football songs ("you can stick you twirly pasta up your...").  

Back at home, I make spicy courgette fritters for us to eat with turmeric-roasted new potatoes and a grated beetroot & onion salad. Apart from the egg, oil, turmeric and flour, this is an entirely plot-based meal.

Up at the allotments we are nervously awaiting annual inspections of the plots. Already the news from other sites around the city are that the inspectors are taking no prisoners and a record 23 non-cultivation notices have been served on one site alone. I suspect that, because waiting lists are so long, they're under pressure to shorten them. 

Had to isolate for 18 months due to a tiny thing called Covid? They aren't taking that as an excuse. We can also look forward to rent increases as councils across the country are trying to recoup losses. Sometimes with hikes as high as 50%(1), which are then broken down by invidious professionals to show that it's ony a couple of pounds a week, what's your problem?

The problem is that councils ask for the rents in one lump sum and if you're on a low income (those very people that allotments were designed for in the first place) which precludes saving, suddenly having to find over £100 is damn near impossible. 

But I try to put those thoughts to one side as I spend 3 hours planting pumpkins and chard, weeding and laying brick edging to the long bed. Breaking every 30 minutes or so to watch the crickets jump and the bees bumble. One bee got himself so drunk on pollen that he fell off a mallow plant and had to take 5 to recover his senses, like a Roman gorging at a banquet. I know because I spent 6 minutes watching him. 

"This is the time to be slow..." 

Walking back I chat to the woman whose Border Collie puppy jumps up at me. We exchange the usual about weather, the bounciness of pups, the fact there are only 4 ducklings now and not the 5 there were a couple of weeks back. A cyclist whizzes past with an imperious ding of his bell delivered too late for either of us to move. The collie barks and he pumps his legs a little faster.

Today, Friday, is a day I set aside for my own bits of writing, which is nice and explains why my posts come in time for your weekend at the moment. You lucky things. I also take some time preparing my desk for the next week: clearing out the scraps of paper, writing a priority list, writing up notes into a proper notebook (I have one for each client), filing. As I work from the room where I read in the early mornings and attempt yoga in the early evenings, this feels like a cleansing. Setting it up for the weekend. Setting myself up for the weekend. 

The sky is a welcome mizzerly and grey, rains are forecast for much of it and the poor parched ground will be grateful - we've missed most of the rain that's battered everywhere else. They break over the rocky shores of the Black Mountains, Malverns or Cotswolds. I'm working on some copy for an artist friend, some resources for my website and my occasionally tinkered with manuscript. From my window, I can see fronds of the honeysuckle waving at me. 

I need to order gifts for friends with babies that sit plumply in phone notifications, all milky contentment and relief. I'll write a postcard to the Kid, one purchased during a birthday visit to Compton Verney to see this exhibition. Instead of heading up to the plot this afternoon, I'll get the sewing machine out. I have a pile of dinosaur patterned fat squares that I want to play with. 

Or maybe I'll just sit and think. Today would have been the birthday of a friend who died earlier this year. Reflection keeps butting into my concentration. 2021 is the gift that keeps returning itself. 

Later tonight, we are Scrabbling with friends during which much talk will be had and fewer tiles will be put down on the board until, eventually, we call it a night and a draw. Honours even. Home to bed. 

(1) Lincoln Council's excutive report of 18th January 2021. Subject: Allotment Fees & Charges

     Chiswick Herald article of 27th December 2020 

     These are just 2 of the reports that came up during a quick Google. 

This is the Time

Now I've managed to get that feeling out of my system - and off my Instagram feed - I have been feeling much better (bar the potential case of Covid I've developed...waiting on proper test results for that one, not just the lateral flow versions). I've found it's very easy for me to become overwhelmed recently and things that I could have shrugged off or battled through, I can't. 

More importantly, I don't want to. And I don't see why I should have to. 

Yes! An epiphany regarding my own welfare! At the grand old age of 44 and 11 months and 2 weeks (yes, it's my birthday soon). But still, better a late epiphany rather than none at all. Needless to say, this epiphany has N quaking just a little bit as I fix him with a gimlet eye and say "Up. With. This. I. Will. Not. Put."

To be fair, the "this" usually refers to the empty, used cereal bowl sat on top of the empty, waiting-to-be-used dishwasher rather than some terrible thing he's said or done. 

But I cannot, for the life of me, work out why men and children behave this way. I suspect that's a question for psychologists. As the mother of a son, I've noticed he does the same thing but that's related to the deprived years sans dishwasher that he no doubt regales colleagues with. Truly, first world problems.

We spent last weekend with said son, who I haven't seen since Dad's funeral in March, and it was splendid to see him again. We also caught up with friends that we've been remotely quizzing with for over a year but had yet to meet in person. I managed not to cry. But I do miss my boy.

 The weather turned against us as we hit the M42 and by the time the North-East borders had been crossed, it was settled into persistant mizzle and winds that threatened to lift gazebos from their fastenings. A sea fret had arrived and refused to budge. Still, we managed to see a couple of beaches, pick up some interesting pebbles (apparently the Kid's boyfriend now refuses to walk along beaches with him because he keeps stopping to look at pebbles. I am very proud), eat at a couple of pubs and generally just enjoy ourselves away from the house. 

Chonky Thor (who we're now calling the Great Boo mainly so we can cry "Great Boo's Up!" in homage to Blackadder on a regular basis) and Wee Mabel went into a local cattery. Tucked in by a river, by a medieval bridge, surrounded by trees - it quite made me want to give up everything and open a rural cattery. They forgave us within an hour of getting home. In fact, the owner sent us pics of the Great Boo enjoying being petted. Traitor.

Speaking of giving everything up, I recently had to step back from a work contract. In most part due to the aforementioned epiphany. I hate stepping away from things like that but sometimes you've got to acknowledge when you need to rest. 

And relax. 

I'm not much of a one for poetry (just say what you mean!) but this one, pinned to the wall by my desk, is really calling to me at the moment, especially the first 3 lines. I think I need to take its advice. 

this is the time to be slow

lie low to the wall

until the bitter weather passes .

 

Try, as best you can, not to let

the wire brush of doubt

scrape from your heart

all sense of yourself

and your hesitant light. 

 

If you remain generous,

time will come good;

and you will find your feet

again on fresh pastures of promise,

where the air will be kind

and blushed with beginning.  

 

Lightly living

Okay, so I have a confession to make. 

Brace yourselves. 

It is May and

Deep breath 

I have been putting the heating back on every now and then. 

Oh my parsimonious northern ancestors must be spinning in their coal dust filled graves, beating their spectral be-clogged feet against the boards but it had to be done. 

For, my dears, it is so cold and wet and recent news events so very saddening that a little joy must be got from somewhere. And for me, that somewhere is in having a warm living room. Just putting on another jumper wasn’t going to cut it. 

Heating scandals aside, the past 3 weeks have been mostly about work. One project has just kicked off with a flurry of activity and another, shorter-term one, has involved many tech frustrations, so my attentions have been focused on the laptop. 

That said, I managed a shop and a lunch with a friend the other day, during a short burst of sunshine. 

Today I discovered that the best music to knead gluten free pizza dough to is Fontaines DC. And then I realised that gluten free dough needs no kneading because there’s no gluten to make it lovely and stretchy. God only knows what sort of rock-like substance it will turn out to be, even with the addition of yeast and xanthan gum. I shall report back from the culinary front line. 

N and I have taken the leap and finally got round to booking: 

1. A man who can to build us a pergola. Which we’ve nicknamed the Degoba System

2. A new sofa to get rid of the second hand one i brought with me. It has held me comfortably but I’m tired of owning furniture that looks like it would be more suitable in a country house hotel in the 1980s. Instead of the sleek young hip thing that I actually am, obviously. 

Side note: do the young people still say “hip”?

3. A weekend away. The cats are booked into the cattery, we’ve gone all out and splurged on a Premier Inn (don’t even go there - I’m just grateful not to be self catering) and The Kid has been warned as we’ll be in his neck of the woods. 

The piano was sold. The Kid brought it with a small inheritance over 10 years ago and it’s sat, unplayed, in the last 4 houses we’ve lived in. There’s only so long you can hang onto something that big in the hope they’ll open the lid and start playing again. As Sunderland is a bit of a trek for a Sunday morning tinkle on the ivories, and neither N nor I took it up during lockdown, it was time to say goodbye. The room suddenly looks bigger, lighter somehow, so I’m refusing to be sentimental about it.

And in another dramatic act (remember I got rid of my to-be-read pile?), I threw out my diaries. This was the one change that made N hesitate and say "you sure?" And yes, I'm sure. My diaries were my regurgitation of a day's event's or life's happenings and it felt suddenly vastly unfair to leave them for the Kid to deal with when I'm gone. 

They were incomplete (only lasting a handful of years) and private. And, importantly, mine. I read through pages at random and confirmed that my decision to get rid was the right one. I am no David Sedaris. So into the recycling they went. No dramatic burning in the grate, a la Alec Guinness.

In case you're wondering if I'll regret it in a few years time, I can honestly say I won't. This is not the first time I've got rid of diaries and, should I take it up again, it probably won't be the last. Write it down, write it out, then get it right away. 

Live light, sez I. 

Besides the Kid will be happier with the collection of interesting stones and maybe-fossils he'll inherit. And in keeping with my philosophy, I use the term "happier" very lightly indeed.  

So long, old joanna, you were tuneful while it lasted