Recovering

It is fair to say that, for many people, the first 2 months of 2020 have sucked an enormous amount of donkey butt. Floods, family illnesses, relationship issues forced to the fore by the Christmas break (this is not unusual), worries about pandemics and the general awfulness of the news. It has seemed, like the grey skies, unrelenting and unremitting. 

There was blossom in February. That was worth stopping the car for. That sounds sarcastic when it wasn't meant to. It REALLY was worth stopping for. 

I haven't been immune to this: an injury to one foot in November led to tendon damage in the other as it tried to compensate. Days when I didn't know which foot to limp on and my knees registered complaints. My gait rendered shuffling and slow. Average standing time of 20 minutes only. Pain so bad I'd get home, sit on the stairs to remove my shoes and then cry. No yoga, no allotmenting, no winter walks to chase the blues away. We've been lucky enough to avoid the flooding but work and the world have flooded us with issues that seemed too big to do anything about. 

Loki and his soft belly fur. And incredibly sharp claws. Fuss at your own risk. 

Luckily, 3 months, 2 doctors, a podiatrist and a physiotherapist later, I've finally received a treatment that worked well enough for me to be able to walk down the stairs this morning without wincing. The sun is warm and benevolent. There is the smell of homemade museli, fresh from a mild baking, scenting the air with delicate cinnamon wafts. I've just spent a couple of minutes finely chopping basil for a goats cheese and basil pasta dish, the punchy green smell of the herb making my mouth water. 

Thor. Even softer belly fur, less intimidating claws. One eye open in case I start crocheting and some wool teasing is to be had.

What else, what else, for the past 2 months? Unpicked my Attic 24 blanket and then started again with a smaller hook and better results. Read books. Found Percy Pigs in unexpected places. Stroked the cats soft angel-hair bellies. Met up with friends. Became a mother-in-law in waiting (the Kid newly engaged). Soft-launched my heritage consultancy. Swam in the calm warm blue waters of my nearest swimming pool 3 mornings a week. Made a dress. Watched the 2 projects I'd launched at work take flight and grow. 

March is good. March feels like plans can be made. March feels hopeful. 

 Percy Pigs, my most favourite sweet, hidden by a very considerate person, in unexpected places. Little smiles after arguments over the dishes.

 
Goats Cheese and Basil Pasta
Take one packet of soft goats cheese (at room temperature) and mush with a fork. 
Add a tablespoon of olive oil - the good stuff - and a few grindings of black pepper to the cheese. 
Finely (or roughly, it's up to you) chop some fresh basil. 
Pause for a moment to fill your nostrils with the smell of it. 
Add to the goats cheese mix. 
Cook your pasta. Drain and keep a little back to add to the mix. 
Put pasta back in the pan and add the goats cheese mush. 
Stir through, adding the pasta water a little at a time, until the appropriate amount of sauciness has been achieved. 
Serve in bowl with chopped cherry tomatoes and a slice of crusty bread to get up the last of the sauce. 
Eat with a good view, a good book or a good companion. 

Optional Extras: 
pine nuts for crunch
garlic for vampire protection
gran padano or parmesan for added cheesiness
 

Whimsy, or Whumsy

If your fingers are anything like mine and instead of hitting the right keys at the right time and in the right order, they are missing them, hitting the wrong ones or splodging 3 down at the same time, so that what should read "green" actually reads "fgrweemn". I feel like Homer in the Simpsons episode where he eats to be fat enough to work from home and then can't work the telephone keypad. "If your fingers are too fat to dial, smash the numbers with the palm of your hand, you terrible, terrible person." Or something. 

Anyway, today is Valentines or Galentines or Palentines or Petentines or just another Friday. However you wish to consider this day (I haven't done Valentines for years and frankly this one freaked me out: what was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to buy? Why is he not like normal people and happy to mainline salted caramel? Why did I not fall in love with a woman and thereby have a multitude of sad, cheap shit to chose from in the shops?), I think we all need some whimsy to carry us through the storms predicted this weekend. 

 

And that's just from those who brought Val. Day stuff but didn't get anything in return. 

I'll keep you posted on that one. 

These gorgeous creations are automaton (which I have a soft spot for anyway, much like I do stop-animation films) created by Rowland Emmett, the genius behind the designs for Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, an illustrator for Punch and one of those people that I really wish I known and met when he was alive. 

Whimsy, beautiful design, attention to detail and a blatant call on your curiosity, I love these so much, I'd knock down some of my house to get it in. But I'm not allowed to. However, there is a touring exhibition of A Quiet Afternoon in Cloud Cuckoo Valley (see images above). If you go along and have to elbow a middle-aged woman with unruly hair out of the way, that'll be me. Say hi while you're elbowing.

Taking Steps

I think, right now, it is okay to feel overwhelmed. To feel like the skies are always dark, the work always repetitive and the hugs not always forthcoming. To feel like there are so many problems you don't know where to start (and that's before you even get to the big world stuff). To feel like there are so many things to learn about that there is not enough time in the world. To feel like you are shouldering so many burdens you may break. To feel that you are always the one dishing out the support, love and affection, whilst always being at the end of everyone else's queue for the same.

It is quite alright to think, to know, that you cannot face going out, staying out, partying out because all that really appeals is solitude and time to think. It is alright to, when faced with this time to think, decide not to but merely watch re-runs or read whilst in your pyjamas. It is alright to eat the same thing on repeat, to not feel like cooking, to allow the craving to take over.

It is perfectly fine to hibernate, hunker down, bunker up, shut down. The world will still turn even if you don't make that dinner engagement. Oxygen will still be generated even if you don't see that must-see film. Humanity will continue to bimble and bicker outside your door even if you don't go to that pub.

It is okay to feel all this because you're human. And because it's still only fecking February, how are we not in March yet, dear god will this winter never end and if I have to close the door behind someone ONE MORE TIME, I may take it off the hinges and batter them with it while screaming "close the door!" over and over again.

And breeeeeathe.

So, what to do? Lie back and allow it to overwhelm, weeping into a giant bag of left-over Christmas crisps and a plateful of the Christmas cake that no one can really bring themselves to eat but needs must when the mood is this dire? Rage rage against the dying of the light, the leaving open of the doors or the endless rain? Grit your teeth and soldier silently on, mounting fury at the continued ignoring of your own needs making your eyes go flinty and mean, causing yet more crows feet? Add crows feet to the list of things to worry about?

No. 

Take the bath. Read the escapist book (I've been inhaling Barbara Pym and Muriel Spark like crack...do people inhale crack?). Buy the good bread, cheese and chocolate. Ask for, nay demand, the hug from those you love. Book the massage. Park the car in a country road and stand in a field for 5 minutes. Smell the baby's head. Light the candle. Buy the daffodils. Get out of the car and look at the snowdrops. Give a quid to the homeless guy. Give all your quids and a cup of coffee. Hold a perfectly smooth egg for 30 seconds and then make yourself the butteriest scrambled egg for breakfast. Make time for breakfast. Swim. Stare at the stars. Tick off the days. Know that it gets better. 

Buy an automatic closer for the goddam door. 

My Week in Pictures

I had an early morning visitor - the Velveteen Splodge (Thor-cat's new nickname because he is as soft and strokable as the purest velvet, and also because when he splodges out on the carpet, he looks almost boneless) wanting to know, in the nicest possible way, where his damn breakfast was.

A quick visit to the allotment last Sunday and a final bout of digging the long bed in time for the frosts (ha!) to break the earth down. It yielded quite the biggest ant's nest I've ever seen, plus a leftover from the previous tenant. I have no idea what a "Pupleurium Houndifalum" is. If , indeed, that is it's real name *squints*

Tulips in the dark dark morning. 

The Withnail Wall is finally up, a mere 7 months after moving in, and it is splendid. It's been our habit for the past 3 years to go to the annual screening of Withnail and I at the Electric Cinema in Birmingham. There we eat themed cake, watch the film amongst like-minded (and often costumed) people and take part in the charity auction. Hence quite so many Richard E Grant signatures. The day they get Paul McGann in to talk about it and sign stuff is the day I genuinely lose my tiny mind with excitement. And have to remortgage the house.

Treated myself to some new t-shirts from Cakes with Faces. Love their designs. Cute but not mutton-as-lamb cute. 

Not shown, my Mum's new knee, my first ever attempt at making a teriyaki sauce (that turned out rather well) and the crochet blanket I started thinking to follow along with Attic 24's C-A-L. I ripped it apart after 4 lines, vaguely unhappy with it but not able to articulate why. Just couldn't face 293 rows of sodding treble stitch. 

Also not shown, my newly-painted bathroom. It is a vivid pink and no mistake. Like being on the inside of a raspberry. If you're going to go pink, go hard, say I. Insert your own double entendre, you filthy minded so-and-sos. 

Riding out the waves of a very wet week (not quite literally) and coasting to a Saturday night full stop. 

Down among the mosses

We're on the dog days of the Christmas holiday here - the return to work is due on Monday and Tuesday - and it's showing. There's a lethargy about the house and my jeans are begging me to return to normal eating patterns. So, in a bid to dispell the one and ease the other, I've been spending more time at the allotment. 

Only for half an hour at a time as ongoing foot problems means I find it very painful to be stood up for more than 30 minutes at a time. This is both boring and annoying, and I'm missing planned winter walks. 

Instead, I go and clear brambles, dig over some more of the covered bed and plant out some broad bean plants, taking a coffee and chocolate break (the mystery over my jeans feeling tight deepens...) before limping back home along the canal path, doing my best Igor impression. 

The earth is still waterlogged but the mosses and lichens I find are beautiful. And today I had a cheeky visitor watching me turn over the earth. He was especially pleased with the ants nest I uncovered. 

What is it about the sideways head-bob that is so adorable? 

2019 in books

The other day, the Boyfriend caught me doing something I'd managed to keep hidden for the past 6 months, out of embarrassment really and a desire not to be seen as a complete weirdo. 

The conversation went something like this:

"What's that?"

"Umm. Have you fed the cats?"

"Yes, an hour ago. What are you doing?"

"Ahh. What would you like to do today?"

"It's Wednesday, I'm going to work. Seriously, what is that?"

"So it is. I'd better get dressed then!"

"Quit stalling and just tell me what you're up to. Is that your diary?"

Now reader, there is a diary but this was not it and I had no other conversational blind alley to lead him down. It was time to 'fess up to some serious nerdiness. 

"No, it's my reading diary."

"Your what??"

"My, umm, reading diary."

And right there and then, I saw my status as the Not-Nerdy one of the relationship disintegrate and a new level of Equal-Nerd was achieved. Which is all to the good, obviously. Yes, it is true, I keep a reading diary and have done for the past 5 years. It wasn't my original idea, but something I read (ironically, I forget where) someone else did to keep track of all the books she had read each year. "That's a good idea," I thought to myself as I realised I'd made it through 2013 and could only remember the handful of books that stuck in my head. "That will stop me standing at the library, book in hand, desperately trying to work out of I've already read it or not." Something that happened on a frequent basis. 

So I started one in the January of 2014 and I haven't stopped yet. It reveals things about a person, this reading diary lark, but I'll let you decide what this year's reveals about me...

January: How to be Right by James O'Brien, Take Courage by Samantha Ellis, The Unfortunates by Laurie Graham, Altered States by Anita Brooker, Cash - the Autobiography by Johnny Cash, Birdcage Walk by Helen Dunmore, Peril at End House by Agatha Christie, The Black Tower by PD James, Third Girl by Agatha Christie

February: biography of Mary Wesley by Patrick Marnham, Bigger than Hitler Better than Christ by Rik Mayall, Night Watch by Terry Pratchett, An Unsuitable Match by Joanna Trollop, Unpleasantness at the Bellona by Dorothy Sayers, Lord Peter Views the Body by DS

March: Not That Sort of Girl by Mary Wesley, Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs by Steve Brusatte, Slaughterhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut, Coal Black Mornings by Brett Anderson, Diary of a Nobody by the Grossmiths, Crap Lyrics by Johnny Sharp, The Belting Inheritance by Julian Symons, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy by John le Carre, Patrick Leigh Fermor biography by Artemis Cooper

April: To Throw Away Unopened by Viv Albertine, All That Remains by Sue Black, Notes on a Nervous Planet by Matt Haig, The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler, Almost Everything by Annie Lamott, Men Explain Things to Me by Rebecca Solnit

May: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency by Douglas Adams, The Private Patient by PD James, Have Mercy on us All by Fred Vargas, Wash this Blood Clean from my Hands by FV, Dead Water by Ngaio Marsh, An Uncertain Place by FV, Ghost Riders of the Orderbec by FV

June: Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, Aunt Margaret's Lover by Mavis Cheek, No Fond Return of Love by Barbara Pym, Playback by Raymond Chandler, The Eye in the Door by Pat Barker, Gilead by Marilynn Robinson, Room with a View by EM Forster

July: Case Histories by Kate Atkinson, Mrs Hemingway by Naomi Wood, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, Nicotine by Nell Zink

August: Grow Your Own Vegetables by Joy Larkham, Goodbye to all That by Robert Graves, When all is Said by Anne Griffin, Men at Arms by Terry Pratchett, The Fifth Elephant by TP, 100 Graves to Visit Before you Die by Anne Treveman

September: The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle by Stuart Turton, Cargo of Eagles by Margery Allingham, How Not to be a Boy by Robert Webb, Regeneration by Pat Barker, Wise Children by Angela Carter, This Poison will Remain by Fred Vargas, Proof by Dick Francis

October: Diary of a Bookseller by Shaun Blythell, Wild Strawberries by Angela Thirkell, Bearmouth by Liz Hyder, Misogynies by Joan Smith, Death is now my Neighbour by Colin Dexter, Death at the Chase by Michael Innes, the Rising Tide by Molly Keane, the Jewel that was Ours by Colin Dexter, Educated by Tara Westover, Call for the Dead by John le Carre

November: Lords and Ladies by Terry Pratchett, Best Man to Die, the Veiled One and Unkindness of Ravens by Ruth Rendell, One Upon a River by Diane Setterfield, My Sister the Serial Killer by Oyinka Braithwaite, That's me in the Corner by Andrew Collins, I Am I Am I Am by Maggie O'Farrell, the Child that Books Built by Francis Spufford, Between Friends by Kathleen Rowntree

December: the Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield, Ghostland by Edward Parnell, the Ghost Child by Eowyn Ivey, the Crow Trap by Anne Cleeves, Some Tame Gazelle by Barbara Pym, Character Breakdown by Zawe Ashton, the Christmas Egg by Mary Kelly, Peaky Blinders: the real story by Carl Chinn, Love of Country by Madeline Bunting

My favourites are marked with links to reviews (I always make an additional list of favourites too; my god, I am a super nerd). Some are rereads, more are new reads. If I was a proper book blogger, I'd do reviews of them but then I'd have no time for reading, so no. The only one I'm tempted to review is Bearmouth by my friend, Liz Hyder, because it's such a breathtaking, tour de force that I think all young adults (and old ones) should read it. It's extraordinary, with a unique, captivating voice, and a plot that sends shivers down your spine. Her research is played lightly, no heavy handed moralising here, just a story that carries you down into the earth and then back up into the light. Read it, goddamit.

Rereading Lords and Ladies made me very because there will never be any more Nanny Ogg or Magrat Garlick and that makes me sadder than anything. I miss Terry Pratchett. 

Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle made me impatient and, at the end, bloody furious. What kind of an ending was that? Where was his editor? Creative writing courses have a lot to answer for. At least it didn't make me the same level of furious as Gone Girl did - I actually wrote "RUBBISH" in the margin of the diary next to that one. 

Judging by the level of crime reading in May, I was stressed out. Given that was a month before we moved house, it's not surprising. I always turn to fictional crime when real life gets stressy. At least I chose three queens of crime fiction to soothe my brain with. If you've never read Vargas, put her on your list.

And this is why I keep the diary. Looking back at it sparks memories, joy and sadness, irritation or relief at finally getting through a big text that I wasn't really interested in (Cash and Fermor biographies, I'm looking at you). And, occasionally, surprise: I did not enjoy Notes on a Nervous Planet, I bloody loved Ghostland. 

Character Breakdown is worth a special mention. Couldn't stop turning the pages on that one, jaw open in horror at what the acting profession demands of young women. 

Whatever, you've found yourself reading this year, I hope the pages kept turning, new worlds emerged and real life was a little better at the end of it. I now have a pile of books to keep me out of mischief for a few weeks...maybe. Happy new year!

PS: this isn't about numbers or showing off but about the very deep joy books bring me. I felt this needed reiterating as Andy Miller gets a lot of stick for how much he reads. His blog post explains how and why he does, as well as wondering at the mindset of people who get angry over a picture of books on a table. 

T'was the week before Christmas...

And all the creatures were stirring. Especially in the city. Popped into Marks and Spencers the other day to get myself a sandwich and was confronted by a sea of people panic-buying musical tins of biscuits, umpteen packets of festive Percy Pigs* and enough ham to sink battleships. No one apparently considering whether beleaguered relatives (also out panic buying novelty socks, festive jumpers and crackers filled with tiny screwdriver sets, blunt metal nail files and corkscrews apparently designed for mice) actually want the musical tins of biscuits. What will happen to them all after the contents have been eaten? Doesn't bear thinking about but I do wonder what archaeologists of the future will make of it all.

Our social calendar has been full to bursting recently with friend's parties, work parties, random gatherings and family birthdays. So much so it was a relief when one was cancelled last Sunday. Whilst sending my commiserations over their illness, it was all I could do not to whoop with joy. My Sunday was freed up for the first time in weeks! What to do, what to do?

Obviously, to do was to head to the allotment. Also for the first time in weeks thanks to rain/illness
/busyness.

Getting there I felt I should have been depressed at the sight of the site. Everything I've planted this year has rotted away; beaten down by the rain before they had chance to get past the seedling stage, or even sprout a shoot or two. Luckily, from the moment I got the site, I'd decided to treat it as an experiment and not get downhearted over failures. If you're coming from a position of knowing nothing and achieving nothing, it's easier to rise up from it.

And besides, this time of year exposes the colourful bones of the place, which is rather wonderful even without things growing as they should.

We didn't spend long there. Enough to hack back the brambles, finally stripped of fruit and leaves (see clump of wildness above), and dig over another of the beds so the frost and cold can do the work of breaking it down. I will admit that it was kind of disheartening to stand on the ground and hear the leaden squelch of mud underfoot. It's been so wet! Turning over the soil was like lifting a mini boulder with each forkful. I tell myself that means I'll soon have sculpted arms. Apparently this is A Thing all women should want. I merely want functional ones.  

Work is nearly done for the year - just one more day to go. Looking forward to the return in January as our new office will be completed and we'll be moving in. Today I spent a couple of hours painting the newly plastered walls. I paint fast but not well and with so much splash back, the only way I'd have been more covered in paint would be if I'd tipped the pot over me. Colleagues have had a good laugh at my expense. 

This year's gifts are a mix of brought and handmade, the latter involving pomegranate gin, my own boozy mincemeat and little chocolate & peanut butter cookies. Labels have been made for all of them, my personal favourite being for the gin. 

There were also hats for nieces and sisters (including the in law ones) but Thorcat has an obsession with wool - and I mean stare-at-me-while-I-knit-in-most-unnerving-and-unblinking-fashion obsession - and he managed to hook them out of their hiding place while I was at work, leaving himself free to slowly pick them apart with his claws. So there are no hats and I am most unimpressed. Also, slightly worried as he stares at me the same way when I twist my hair round my fingers. Am convinced I'm going to wake up one morning to find my scalp on the bedroom floor. We have adopted a psychopath.

Tomorrow night, we have our annual festive scrabble night, which is exactly like our normal scrabble night but with added mince pies, then my parents are over on Sunday to celebrate my Mum's birthday, even though she doesn't really celebrate it because it's so close to Christmas and we've already had 5 family birthdays in the last month, and our final bit of socialising is a night of Sharpe at a friends. Both she and the Boyfriend are shocked that I've never seen Sharpe (what's the point of something with Sean Bean in it if he doesn't die heroically?), so I'm being forced into it. Chilli has been promised to make me stay. 

There may well be a book post (I used to do these with my old blogs and I enjoyed them) before the end of the year but in the meantime, may your next week be festive in whichever way you prefer it to be. 

Merry Christmas!


*okay, that was just me