My Week in ...

... touch. I'm a very tactile person and the way something feels is hugely important to me. It's one of the reasons I stopped wearing vintage clothing - I couldn't bear the feel of crimplene on my skin. See also, real wool. Itchy itchy itchy. 

However, these 7 touches gave me all the good feels:

Mabel fur. Yes, I am a little obsessed but she is warm and soft and fluffy, and won't be this way forever, so I'm indulging

The rough surface and slight prickle of the runner bean, courgette and cucumber plants on the allotment

Silken petals on the rose my parent's got me for my birthday

Early morning grass under my bare feet as I pad across to hang the washing out

The whisper-soft brush of the grasses that have seeded in our tiny garden and that dance next to me as I'm weeding

Making focaccia, I'm momentarily distracted by the pilllowy suppleness of the dough under my fingers, mesmerised by how it rises back from the kneading

The fuzz of my boyfriend's newly shaved head. 

July at the Allotment

The grand harvest has begun and what a harvest it is! Even with only a few functioning beds while I work on developing the rest of the plot, there has been an abundance of produce. I'm leaving runner beans on neighbours doorsteps and freezing as much as possible. 

The courgettes produce on a daily basis and on a couple of occasions I've left one that was just the small side of perfect only to come back the next day to find it has ballooned to nigh-on marrow size. We've had them stir-fried, bhaji-d, added to casseroles and done simply with butter and thyme and served on toast. I'm not entirely convinced courgette jam is the way to go, but I may not have an option. Of the 2 types we've had - yellow and green - the former are the most delicious. I shall stick to those in future.

 

The beans have produced a whopping 6lbs so far and I spent a Sunday topping, tailing, de-stringing and chopping into small pieces, 4 of those 6lbs. These have been blanched and are now in the freezer waiting for a free weekend when we can turn them into chutney. 

The squash are curling themselves across the beds and I've made a note to plant them in a different location next year as they are slightly in the way. They should be a bumper crop too. 

The wildflowers are spectacular, bursts of colour at the top of the allotment that the bees go crazy for. The borage had a total of 10 honeybees on there when I last checked, all of them heads down, bums up, almost drunk on the pollen they were harvesting.

 

All of the potatoes are up now and I lugged home the last 17lbs of them at the weekend. I'm letting the beds rest until we've built the cabbage cage and then the seedlings can go in, safe from butterfly eggs and pigeons. The planned asparagus bed has been covered over so the weeds can die down before being dug over in winter. 

                                                   

And I finally finished digging out the fruit cage area! That really was a battle of woman against plot as I dug through 3 years of accumulated weeds, grass, bramble root and leavings from previous tenants. I'm now unsure that it's big enough but, as the boyfriend pointed out, we can always extend it next year. 

It is still one of my favourite places to be. My colleague recently gave me a "return to work" gift of a little green notebook with a Moomin on the front and the quote "I only want to live in peace and plant potatoes and dream". I'm with you there, Moomin Papa.

July Reading

I genuinely didn't expect to get much reading done in July. There was too much to do outside, too much work to do and my brain was skittering around like Mabel on our tiled kitchen floor. 

Actually, Mabel is responsible for the fact I did read so much. On my 2nd week of being signed off, she joined the family and, being so small, spent quite a lot of time sleeping in the crook of my elbow whilst I tried not to fret on the sofa. It would have been cruel to move her, so what else could I do but pick up a book from the top of the teetering To Read pile and, well, read. 

And slowly, as she settled in, warm and soft and purring, my brain slowed its skittering. At the start, I read but couldn't tell you what the pages contained, the words just washed over me. 2 books jolted me out of that: My Name is Why by Lemn Sissay and The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson. They were astonishing. Sissay's for his unsparing account of a childhood spent without love and understanding; Nelson's for her exploration of gender, sexuality and family. Sissay's made me cry, Nelson's made me smile. 

To complement the Sissay, I thoroughly recommend the Imagine documentary on the BBC. Normally Yentob gets right on my pip but this was sensitively handled with enough space left for Sissay to fill with his own words. 

Angelou I've talked about before, my love of Vargas and Christie continues (and not just for the hokey covers, but seriously, have you seen a more hilarious Christie cover than this one?).

I approached The Attenbury Emeralds with an open mind but it was not good. The tone was off, the dialogue hit duff notes, the plot far too complicated and rushed and, oh, it just wasn't satisfactory. As a long time Sayers' fan, I should have known better. It was a bit like Sophie Hannah's attempts at Poirot stories: well intentioned but just not right. 

But I'm going to end on a high note: my pal, Liz Hyder, won the Waterstones Young Adult Book of the Year last week and I'm pleased as a pleased thing that's just had some pleasing news! Bearmouth was one of my books of the year last year - it's an incredible piece of writing with a unique story and an unforgettable voice in Newt. An absolute must-read for any young adult in your life.

July books: 

Seeking Whom He May Devour - Fred Vargas

An Uncertain Place - Vargas

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings - Maya Angelou

My Name is Why - Lemn Sissay

The Attenbury Emeralds - Jill Paton Walsh

The Cornish Coast Murder - John Bude

Lolly Willowes - Sylvia Townsend Warner

Uncommon Reader - Alan Bennett

The Argonauts - Maggie Nelson

Cat Among the Pigeons - Agatha Christie

The 4.50 from Paddington - Christie

Hound of Death and Other Stories - Christie

In Praise of the Small Garden

As I walked to and from work today (yes, I am back at work and yes, I am feeling better thanks), melting in the cruel heat of the midday sun (oh to be in Greenland right now!), my eye was drawn from the softening tarmac, the relentless blue sky and the bursts of intense light bouncing off car windscreens, to the side of the pavement. In particular, to the front gardens of the houses that lined them. 

Living in a city, most of the front spaces have been turned into car parks as people decide they cannot possibly exist without their car Right Outside their front door. Some are little more than paved waiting areas for the big green and black wheelie bins each household has. But on this street, most have been left as mini gardens and the contents, I think, reflect the people inside. 

There's the one with ivy creeping up over the front door, numerous shells cover the seat of a small bench and there are handmade items almost hidden in the dahlias. Another has a purple slate path that meanders, tinyly through small beds of daisies, Mexican fleabane, phlox and other country flowers. They've managed to fit in a birdbath and a bird table too. 

I pass the one that has 2 wheelie bins but they are partially hidden behind a patch of grass no wider than a flymo that has been allowed to grow to knee height. After that comes the larger property with the sweeping gravel drive, gates painted a tasteful shade of green and 2 artfully pruned trees whose shade allows me to gratefully catch my breath. 

The next has a wall made of bricks, each painted a different pastel shade of pink, yellow, green and purple. It has holes cut in it that have been seeded by thrift, daisies and buttercups. Then there's the one I call the witches garden: it's full of herbs that have been allowed to go wild, including the most enormous rosemary shrub that's been carefully clipped into a pleasing curving shape. 

There are paths of slate, brick, tarmac and gravel. Windows that bow out, sash up and down or simply fling their two halves open to the light. Doors are green, white, blue and red, one a yellow that startles the eye. Numbers are printed on enamel signs, pottery tiles or straight onto the doors themselves. 

In the windows, signs and rainbows for the NHS are still up, yellowing and curling in the sun. One has pictures of the owner’s art as part of the local Art At Home week. There are sun catchers, dream catchers and wind chimes in others.  

Our own tiny patch of front garden is in need of weeding but is full of snap dragons, daisies, marigolds and lavender that the bees are going crazy over. Inside our plain black door is the new addition to our family and my heart is full at the thought of playtime and cuddles with Mabel. 

As I type this now, she’s fast asleep, curled up next to me. A brief pause before she wakes and starts exploring again. There is something so completely joyful in her demeanour and curiosity, it's helping us see our house anew. 

June Reading

With hindsight, my June reading should have been a huge clue, to me anyway, as to how I was feeling. But that’s the thing about being in the middle of a fog, you can’t see your way out, let alone stop to think about  what might be causing it. 

To cut a long, twisting, evolving and not particularly jolly story short, I’m currently signed off work for a couple of weeks with stress and anxiety, and I should have seen the signs. But as I wasn’t paying attention to myself, the cause of the fog, I didn’t realise how bad it was until I woke one morning and discovered that I could no longer find my way out of it. 

I will be fine. All the support systems have kicked in, boyfriend and friends that know are hugely supportive, the rest is helping and the fog is lifting. As I look back to June, I can now see how quickly it gathered, and the triggers behind it. That’s the thing about hindsight: it’s always 20:20. 

The clue in my reading is that I completely lost the ability to focus. I started David Olusoga’s book and Toni Morrison’s but couldn’t manage more than a couple of pages at a time. Not because they are badly written, the very opposite. No, my brain was completely overwhelmed and in retreat. 

So it retreated to Discworld. I gulped down all the copies I had on my shelves but I couldn’t tell you what the nuances of plot were. All I knew was that they were safe and comforting and set in a world that worked a damn sight better than the real one. I wanted to pound the streets with Captain Vimes, be taught how to Borrow by Granny Weatherwax, learn the lyrics to The Hedgehog Can Never Be Buggered with Nanny Ogg and ride Binky with Death. 

I most emphatically did not want to be in reality. Does anyone right now?

The good news is that the fog is beginning to lift. A few days on the sofa and the arrival of our new addition, Mabel (there will be more about her, have no fear) have helped enormously. It's hard to remain wallowing in self-pity when a small furry head is butting against yours and there are 4 tiny paws to play with.

My Week in...

Tastes. It was my birthday this week, so I’ve been utterly spoiled for flavours that danced and sang on my tongue. 

My breakfast egg with an umami sprinkling of mixed sesame and seaweed garnish picked up at my local Asian supermarket. 

A seafood linguine full of mussels, clams and crayfish in a sauce so delicious, I wanted to bathe in it. 

Pickled onion Monster Munch. Grabbing dinner on the go as we went to visit friends. 

A salad of strawberries, mango and nectarines at the so-ripe-we’re-nearly-done stage. 

Cherry and almond, raspberry and peanut butter brownies for the family gathering today, to celebrate said birthday. The RPJ ones are perfect: chewy, fudgey, rich. 

Roast chicken with thyme, rosemary, parsley, lemon zest and garlic stuffing. 

The intense berried zing of my favourite wine, Fleuris. Only purchased on special occasions. 

Our first beetroot from the allotment: pink on the outside, yellow in. Obviously the best tasting beetroot that has ever been grown. 

My Week in ... Sounds

The bells chiming out the hour from the rather handsome church round the corner from our house. I find myself feeling cheated when the number of chimes is less than 7. 

Our formerly indoor cat making his strange cackling meow at the massive pigeons on the fence, as though he knows he should make a noise but can’t decide what it should be. 

Birdsong at the allotment, with a bass line of bees.  

The chatter and clink of cups at the first coffee shop I’ve visited since February. 

My own voice on a recording made for work. Do I sound like that? I had no idea. I certainly sound posher than I really am. 

Bacon sizzling in the pan with onions and mushrooms. 

My chair at the café. It was you’llery comfortable.