What Happened to all the Books?

 

Asked nobody. 

But as there hasn't been a book update since...yikes...June, you're getting a sort-of-one anyway. 

You see, I am still reading - lots - I'm just not recording it anywhere. For the first time since 2014, I've stopped keeping my book diary. I rarely Instagram (when did that become a verb?) what I'm reading and I don't often mention it to anyone. 

It's not that what I've been reading has been unmentionable! More that I was beset with a whats-the-point feeling. What is it I'm trying to do with the diary? I don't mind re-reading books, in fact I've been known to actively seek out books I've already read just to enjoy them again. 

Nor am I embarassed by what I read. It's not like I've got all the works by EL James or Jeffrey Archer on the shelves (although I would ditch the Game of Thrones series if they were mine or I thought N wouldn't notice - I have tried covering them with Armistead Maupin instead) hiding on the shelves.

Do I think the Kid or any descendents of mine will be interested? No. And knowing the Kid, descendents are very unlikely, apart from my niece and nephew who surely won't care what Mad 'Burn the Patriarchy!' Aunty T read back in May 2017. 

I had to face the fact that I was probably really only keeping it to, well, show off. Mostly to myself, some to anyone lovely enough to stop by here and read stuff. A little to those mythical descendents who I imaged saying (in binary because all language will be obsolete by then and we'll just be brains in carbonite structures with electrical impulses for senses) "Gosh, look how well read our illustrious ancestor, Mad 'Burn the Patriarchy' Aunty T was! And she was right to burn it all down. May we forever deify her with this digital, virtual structure of a tree because there are no real trees now."

Maybe I should write dystopian fiction?

Anyway, the point of this is that the diary has been ditched and I am a much freer reader for it. There is an absence of pressure, a reduction of ego, a lack of assumed judgement at reading 4 Allinghams in a row. 

But what about the promise I made myself last August, when the world was breaking into tiny angry pieces and this small something became the tiniest raft of hope? I must confess that events of early this year derailed me for a little while, but I'm back on it and see no reason to stop. It has brought open new worlds for me and, I tentatively think, new thinking. I'll keep going.

Just finished: 

• The Bronte Myth by Lucasta Miller - cutting through the sentimental nonsense that surrounds the Brontes, although there's a huge gap where Anne should be.
  
•  Bessie Smith by Jackie Kay - enjoyable psychobiography rather than conventional biography.
  
• Tiger in the Smoke by Margery Allingham - because she's aces and I'm in love with Albert Campion
  

Ditched: the Patrick Melrose books because, fucking hell, who needs that toxicity in their lives?

 Top image of the Shakespeare & Co bookshop, Paris. Courtesy of The Guardian. Support independent bookshops! And burn the patriarchy!

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.

 

The Continuing Tale of Small Adventures

Decided to make the most of today's bout of insomnia (take that brain! Won't let me sleep? Fine, you can do some work instead) and post about my recent trip to London to see the Paula Rego exhibition at the Tate. 

I don’t spend much time in the capital, so I tend to go with a friend to make sure I don't get lost/run over/corrupted to the dark side while I'm down there. This friend used to work a lot there, so she headed from the station with confidence, me scurrying behind like a country mouse, albeit one with a huge rucksack (flask and train snacks, space for buying of many books and things) and red trainers. 

 

By the simple act of turning right out of Paddington, she opened up a whole new world for me. One of parks and sculpture, where the air felt clean, the traffic noise dropped and London revealed itself to be rather spiffy indeed. 

Everything sparkled in the sunshine. Even the barista in the park sparkled with good will to humankind, especially those that are ladies of a certain age in need of strong coffee and plentiful napkins to mop the damp seats with. 

 Refreshed, we set a pace through Kensington Gardens (which I hadn't known was there!), past Wellington's house - No. 1 London, which is a pretty cool address to have, even for an old warhorse - through Marble Arch, past the astonishing memorial, along the outside of Buck. Palace (lots of spiky topped walls and signs warning oiks to Stay Away), and along to Vauxhall Bridge for lunch. 

I ate a plate of gnocci in a gorgonzola sauce and it was Good. Admired the backs of the MI's 5 and 6 - they don't exactly try to blend in, do they? Then hotfooted it to the Tate. 

 

The first thing to strike you as you enter the Rego exhibition is just the sheer scale of her work. They are huge. Vast canvases that command your attention. So often her work is seen through social media, which democratises art, but also, I thought in this context, diminishes it. How can you possibly feel the raw energy and power of work like this through a tiny phone screen?

Anyway, I will shut up for a minute, so you can see for yourselves (yes, I'm aware of the irony)...

Each canvas was as large as a man, and contained all the power in the world. I loved how the Tate were showing a whle life retrospective, so you really got an idea of how her work had progressed throughout the decades. 

I also really appreciated that she and her regular model really collaborated on the works together. So often models are ciphers or, perhaps worse, muses. Silent and passive things. Not this time and the combination of minds creates something strange and other.  

Her drawings are delicate things, beautifully executed, that then transform into these storms on canvas. You're left with the impression of a woman who learned to become uncompromising, who was politically engaged from an early age, and who will have no truck with mealy-mouthed "niceness". 

I'd quite like to sit at her feet and listen to her talk.

And now I’m going to sign off. The Kid returns to Sunderland today and I’m already a little wibbly about it. Come on Collett, stiff upper lip, straight back. You got this. 

Till next time. 

ps N says the last Rego portrait is my spirit painting. I’m good with that. 

How is it October?

I distinctly remember, as a child, moaning about how dreadfully long the days could be, a long drawn out whine of “I’m booooored”, especially if it was raining and the prospect of nothing but playing Monopoly with my sister was on the cards.

I still can’t play Monopoly without smelling Sunday lunch cooking in the background.

Of course, now as a grown assed adult, with my own house to maintain and lunches to make, I completely understand the bitter laugh that invariably came from an adult in the room. 

 

Days are simply not long enough any more. And it’s not all down to my Instagram habit. 

Anyway, here we are in my favourite month, despite it feeling that the start of September was only a blink away. Mornings are nippy, blankets are out and I have made 3 soups in the past 2 weeks.

Thank god I no long have to pretend that I’m perfectly happy with salad, thank you very much, could you pass the coleslaw and cheese, and the dressing and the other thing to smother it in. It is much easier to eat healthily in Autumn and Winter, I find. Soup needs no dressing and ice cream casts no spell when it’s cold outside. 

If I could, I’d live in perpetual October with brief forays into June and July for birthdays. 

But enough fantasising about squash, ginger, coriander and lime soup with garlic flatbread to dip, back to the matter in hand: my disappearing September. 

Most of it went in work and the start of college (my return to education following a 27 year break), but we also had a trip to Surrey for a friend’s wedding. I have only been to Surrey once and can confirm that it’s roads are as badly surfaced now as they were 15 years ago. 

 

 

But we had a splendid time at the wedding which was nice. Even nicer (sorry Charlotte), was the church in Chaldon that a friend of mine had suggested we visit in the morning to see the Doom painting (second photo). 

I'm sure you'll agree that as wall paintings go, that one is just...wow. I mean. Seriously. Can you imagine being an illiterate 14th Century peasant with no scientific knowledge, and that's the image that confronts you the minute you walk into church, and when you leave? 

 

Enough to frighten the beezus out of anyone. 

It was also home to one of the most unintentionally hilarious monuments I've ever seen (not shown). Along the lines of "she survived a shipwreck on the way to somewhere foreign, sailed out there again, suffered disease and the birth of eight children far from home, bore with fortitude all the inconveniences of life there, died on the way back home". Well honestly, wouldn't you? "That's it, I told you I'd had enough. You men and your bloody ships."

We visited Brighton while we were down there. Umm, sorry Brighton, but I think you've probably seen better days than a humid Monday out of season and post-pandemic. Nice graffiti in places though, although I did think they could have opened their museum. Boo.

There were some excellent trees and equally excellent views from the balcony of our AirB&B. There was delicious pizza, fish and chips, and a wedding buffet that transcended the once standard pork pie and cold chicken legs. There were friends, laughter and, almost uniquely for an AB&B, a very comfortable bed.They got a good review for that alone. 

Certainly not for the fact there were only 2 tea bags and 1 toilet roll in the property.

There was a big old moon, sea gulls in their rightful place (i.e. by the sea and not attacking moorhen chicks along the canal back home). There was rest and relaxation and a not entirely hideous return journey along the M25 - it was no picnic, but I expected worse.  You can't help thinking of Crowley and his M25 shenanigans in Good Omens when you think of the M25. 

No demons were summoned during the course of our journey. I think.

This week, the Kid is home from Sunderland for his own slice of rest and relaxation. Working as a carer for adults with complex (and sometimes undiagnosed) mental disabilities and needs during the pandemic has been an exercise in fortitude, grit and sheer determination to see they suffer as little as possible despite the shit show going on outside the doors. 

I've never been prouder and have made all his favourite meals this week. He all but cried at the sausage and bean casserole that was a childhood staple when he was growing up. Yes, I am sending him back with masses of filled tupperware and, hopefully, a renewed vigour for the challenges ahead. He'll need it. 

Back to work next week but hopefully I'll find time to catch up with my trip to London before then. 

If not, rest assured I shall be composing never-to-be-written blog posts while I dig manure into my plot. Kudos to all those taking part in Blogtober. I am enjoying reading your posts. More power to your typing fingers.

Gathered In

Its that time of year again. The worktop by the sink is cluttered with empty jars and bottles that all need a long soak in hot soapy water before they're clean and label-free enough for me to use for all things I'm planning to make. 

The wineberries are safely gathered in and I'll be making a cordial out of those, rather than the gin I'd had planned. My mother in law has MS, so booze is off the cards for her (it worsens some of the symptoms). Rather than have her miss out, as she has on the damson gin, I'll make a cordial from this and another from elderberries. The latter has the added benefit of being exceptionally good for sore throats and coughs.

And I'll still make some damson gin for those who can have it. And the damson jelly that is so good with cold or hot meats, cheeses and basically anything savoury that needs something tart to cut through.

There was a general consensus recently that the last thing any of us needed was more courgette or runner bean chutney, so I'll make a very small batch pickled shredded beetroot and dispense some of it in very small jars, so it feels more like a gift and less like an obligation. I still have a chutney my Mum made 3 years ago in my cupboard, so the whole gift/obligation thing is very real. 

Raspberries I am greedily, gleefully keeping to myself. This is the first year I've had more than 1 solitary, sad raspberry cane fruiting, and I intend to freeze all those I can't eat, to get me through the dark days of late winter with a burst of sunshine. Ditto the blackberries which I'm either eating by the handful at the plot, or on yogurt with a thin but decadent drizzle of proper honey. 

This will be the first year I get to have a go at bottling tomatoes. On the plot are huge fat Marmandes, smaller Big Daddy's and an even smaller yellow cherry tomato, the name of which I've forgotten. I'll make a couple of tomato tarts, eat some raw with goats cheese, bottle the rest to open in late winter and use to smother pasta, eat my way back to summer.  

The courgettes are being roasted and frozen for the same purpose. Come February, when we are tired of sprouts and the dark, I'll throw a couple in with the tomatoes, snip some basil that's overwintered on the windowsill and take us away from the damp and the gloom.

Seed Behaviour

 

 

“ In my defence, I hadn't planned to go to the allotment.”

“That might be a defence, it’s not an explanation.”

“Well, I went to deliver L’s card and present for the baby - 4 weeks late but hey, I brought it big enough - and when I got to what I thought was her address, a bedraggled teenager answered the door and told me she'd moved to number 16. 

"Right, and that has to do with..."

"Wait. So I knocked on number 16 and a clearly stoned woman answered and looked confused for some time before saying 'I'm not Louise?' I told her I didn't think she was and she looked disappointed, so I backed slowly away."

"Keep going,"

"So then I considered standing in the middle of the street and shouting 'Louise!' but thought that might get me arrested and that would ruin your weekend with admin, so I started to walk back."

"Thank you for considering the admin,"

"You're welcome. Anyway, on my way back, I bumped into R's father in law and we got talking about the plot inspections and then we were at the gate of the site but hadn't finished talking, so I followed him in and down to the plot. And J was on his, so I said hello and then figured I'd check for beans and courgettes but there weren't any."

"This is fascinating,"

"I know! Anyway, I noticed that some of the cosmos and calendula had gone over and were scattering seed, so I decided to gather as much as I could except I didn't have any paper bags, only the pockets of my jeans. So that's where I put them."

"Ah-ha."

"Exactly. Only I forgot they were in there until I got my foot stuck in my jeans later and turned them inside out, which is when the seeds fell out and why there are now seeds all over the bedroom floor."

"Gotcha. Going to pick them up?"

"Yeah, in a bit. Don't stand on them."

"You're too kind."

This is the kind of conversation that occurs when N goes away for a few days and then comes back to find seeds on the bedroom floor. I won't repeat the conversation we had when he moved a towel in the airing cupboard and sweet pea seeds fell on him. 

 

Honestly, he acts as though this is strange behaviour. 

 

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.