Moving, if not necessarily, grooving

Just recently, my once daily yoga has taken a hit and, in truth, it's difficult in the new house to find a space to do it in. This is likely to continue as the boyfriend sees things like "putting-stuff-in-attic" as long term projects (don't ask, I've been through this argument from all directions; it's a cul-de-sac), so the little 3rd bedroom is stuffed to bursting and my anticipated yoga space simply isn't there. 

Although I'm back in a structured class setting once a week, it doesn't feel like enough to keep me sane, and booking more than one a week is not something I really want to do as I have an issue with taking orders. Ever wondered what that sotto voce noise is from the back of an exercise class? That's me, muttering through gritted teeth: "you bloody well hold the pose for 4 breaths then."  

I've felt the need to move more since moving. Get the blood flowing and my muscles feeling flexible, not rigid and complaining. Or, not so complaining as they could be. So I have returned to swimming. Loved my birthday swim so much that I took the plunge (I'll get me coat) and signed on several dotted lines to join a local gym with a pool, albeit a small pool. 4 people in there and we're ducking around each other. Luckily, as I go before work, there's usually only one other woman in there who relentlessly swims backstroke accompanied by much splashing. 

And me, head just above water, doing my own, inelegant, version of an extended doggy paddle. Don't care. Love it.

And now, for a round up of good things that have made me happy!

1. A waste-free world in a disused Centre Parks? Best. Conversion. Ever.

2. The rise again of the Doc Marten boot. God, I loved these when I was a teenager and now they do a vegan range, I'm tempted again...

3. Maya Angelou wrote cookbooks? These I need to find. Also, isn't the image accompanying the article just wonderful? Wish I'd been at that dinner party.

4. This inspiring and moving story of Esiah and his seeds.

5. From roadside verge to wildflower meadow, a new scheme in Norfolk. 

6. Absolutely, absolutely gorgeous stained glass art.

7. I don't know what it was, but something about these photos brought a lump to my throat. My Northern roots, I guess. 

8. Some rewilding news from grouse estates in Scotland. About bloody time.  

And yes, I do know what's happening in the news. No, I can't bear it. Yes, I am refusing to talk about it here. No, I won't tell you what to think. Yes, it is all a shit show.  Spread love where you can.

Of Blackberries, Beans and Bugs

I am currently nursing a great number of wounds. They itch and sting, little beadings of blood frilling the edges. Washing up becomes a game of chicken: how long can you hold your injured hands in the hot soapy water? Sock elastic irritates and chafes them. 

It is blackberry season after all. 

The path along the canal and the allotment site are full of brambles that, right now, and for a limited period only, are bearing possibly the ultimate in seasonal foods: blackberries. And I allow no nettle, stinger or sneaking creeping branch to stand between me and a good crumble. Hands and ankles are sacrificed to the cause as I strip all the ones I can reach free from the bushes; a good number of clothes too. However, my blackberrying limits are reached once the leopard-spotted spiders start to weave webs and take up residence on the bushes. My raging (and totally rational, thank you very much) arachnaphobia prevents further picking.

I don't know what this plant is! And they are all over the site. If anyone does, let me know.

But it's all worth it when you make a crumble so awesome, it renders all other Sunday activities futile (the secret is extra oats and ground almonds in the topping). 

Once stripped, the brambles on the allotment are being mercilessly cut back as they are threatening to strangle everything within reach, including the autumn raspberries that have appeared at the top of the allotment. Some of the blackberry branches are thicker than my index and middle fingers together: the original secateurs gave up the ghost, so I had to return with new ones so sharp they cut the air. There is now a heap of drying, dying branches waiting for right amount of autumn for a bonfire. 

There is an small amount of it now I realised the other day, as the 16th Century building I work in takes on it's end of summer briskness that's enough to warrant an extra layer. As I cycle through the park, there is a chill around the edges that raises goosebumps and catches the fingers. Not enough yet to make your breath mist in front of you, but you can smell it just round the corner. This is fine with me as I love autumn. Actually I only know of one person who doesn't: she hates what it signifies, the drawing in of the nights, the months of winter, the gloomy light. This is possibly because she lives in a small town, a glorified village really, where the street lights are few and the social gatherings limited. 

Autumn makes me think I could live in the countryside again. And then I remember. For country dwellers, the Great Muddening draws nigh. That time of year where you can't move without it sticking to your boots, or the paws of your pets. You find it everywhere and for the next 4 months, the mop is rarely dry as you try to fight the rising tide of it. Having been the owner of a long-haired Alsatian-cross, I would find it drifted across the floor, almost like tidal-sand-patterns but gritty and in my kitchen. 

For now, late summer sees the allotments running wild with weeds gone rogue (the photo above of the site next door, the tenant of which rotovated the plot in April and then left it - the weeds are nearly as tall as his shed and seeding all over the place. Rotovating merely creates more weeds, I've decided.), plants gone off-piste and insects galore. Our site is full of crickets chirping like mad, chorusing through the days, and the oregano is bustling with bees and butterflies galore, making whoopee while the sun shines.

Of course, these days always feel like the last time to make the most of summer produce, rushing to grab what I can find. Tiny courgettes are in the market; the last of the summer fruits; runner beans and tomatoes still on their vines, smelling like my paternal Grandad's greenhouse. 

Now there was a man of infinite patience and a desire to stay out of the way of his termagent wife. She could rule the house with an iron fist, and she did - the tiny bungalow was her territory - but the garden and the greenhouse was his. I cannot smell tomatoes without remembering him. And I cannot look at runner beans without thinking the same. His patience extended to slowly removing the stringy edges, then painstakingly slicing, with his old wooden-handled knife, the beans into matchstick thin pieces, equal in length and thickness, one eye on whatever race meet was showing on the telly. 

A rear-gunner in WWII, shot down over Italy and left permanently deaf from the roar of the plane engines and gunfire, he dwelt mostly in his own little world of silence. Returning from war an atheist, he became an engineer, had a realistic and uncompromising view of his own worth as a human and helped raise 3 children, teaching his youngest to overcome his stammer with endless calm. Followed the horses, supported Arsenal, accepted the never-altered weekly dinner (served at lunchtime) menu without complaint. 

I can never manage to get my beans as fine as he did and my knife is plastic-handled but every time I slice them, I'm 6 again, colouring in and chatting aimlessly, listening to the horses race on the radio, in his companionable silence.

Things I have learned recently

I started (and abandoned due to lack of time) a post last week after recovering from a bit of minor surgery that was to remove some pre-cancerous cells from my cervix. As the letter from the doctors said, "this is not cancer, but has the potential, if left, to turn into cancer." 

That was a less reassuring statement than I think they meant it to be.

 The boyfriend strimming away with an expression of fierce concentration, 

seconds before the strimmer wire ran out and we admitted defeat.   

 Must say that, damn, they worked fast. Not only in the treatment but in keeping the gaps between letters and treatment short. The speed they work at reassures me: within 4 weeks, I'm back in the coloscopy room. Within 30 minutes, I'm back in the car, pre-cancerous cell-less, asking the boyfriend if he wants pasta for tea.

For all the moaning that this city's hospital gets, I've never had anything but positive (if they can be called that) experiences with them. Although management not letting the nurses park on site (we were gossiping during procedures) is frankly outrageous, and I hope each and every one of the management who are allowed to, stub their toes on the way to their cars.  

 

The bramble mountain. There are wallflowers there too. 

One day I'll explain my wallflower intolerance. 

Spent some time on the allotment this week. One of the beds that we'd covered in membrane had finally given up and was living-weed-free, so we cleared the dead stuff, strimmed the paths and wilder areas, tacked down membrane that had worked it's way loose and hacked back at the brambles that resembled triffids (after I'd raided them for blackberries, obviously). Found what looks to be asparagus gone wild, albeit asparagus with it's own beetles. 

Little wee red and black beetles copulating freely with nary a care in the world for my

 asparagus. Little buggers.  

 

Those blackberries may be the only crop we get from the allotment this year: the ground underneath the dead weeds is so hard and compacted that it broke the fork. And then the spade. Hopefully the deluge of rain that's promised for tomorrow may actually soften the ground enough for us to do something with it. 

Met the allotment neighbour - an earnest young man with a small baby and 2 allotments. He's clearly going down the self-sufficiency route, which I once considered, having fancied myself as something of a Barbara Goode. Truth (and experience) is, I'm more of a Margot Leadbetter. And I cannot warm to hens.

 

Said bent fork. Useful for picking up brambles that you've cut down. Sod all use for anything else. 

 

So the message to take away from this post is:

a) never skimp on your garden tools - a bent fork is use to neither man nor beast
b) always have your smear test
c) always know your own body and have the courage to say when something ain't right
d) don't let your boyfriend see the "What Symptoms To Watch Out For Post-Surgery" letter because he'll then use it as a running gag for the next few weeks
e) spend a really uncomfortable night sleeping on a deflated airbed the weekend before so that, honestly, the procedure was a doddle compared to waking up at 5am after a heavy night and trying to stand up in a 2 man tent. 

I am not, and never will be, a happy camper. Although the marshmallows toasted on the open fire were almost worth it. The first sip of coffee in the morning after? Definitely worth it. 

You can't see them, but there are people there too. Taken before the great marshmallow rush.

But here are a few things that have made me happy this week:

• sea eagles are making a return to the Isle of Wight 
• the wild tiger population is finally rising
• the amazing pink seesaws
• this twitter campaign
• the museum I work for finally getting it's National Lottery Heritage Fund grant after 2 years of work, research, bid writing and trying to find match-funding
• finally starting to learn Spanish thanks to the Language Zen app. Been meaning to for years, can't see any reason for delaying it
• late, so late, to the Community party but loving it
• Medieval marginalia, a small obsession of mine, on Instagram. No, that's not me. This is me.
• My epic Saturday night Scrabble win

 Yeah, that's me on the left. I lost the next night, so we're all good.

The Happy Things Round Up

Okay, I'll admit it. Even I'm struggling to find the good about this week (*rests head in hands briefly when remembering who's just got the top job of running the country*) but it is out there, I promise. 

1. Facebook is not necessarily all evil, stolen data and cat videos! Sometimes it's a force for good. See how the people of Aleppo are keeping their histories alive. 

2. A wonderful piece of craft, combining the words of the most excellent Michael Sheen with a whole-hearted swear, all in lovely stitches. If only embroidery had been like that at school. 

3. Something to bring a happy tear to your eye. A Twitter thread (yes, I know they're a bit of a bore but in the absence of a blog to send you too...) about LGBTQ acceptance and growth.  

4. For those of us who have mothers with opinions on what we wear...you ain't seen nothing till you've seen the WhatsAppMama Instagram account.  

5. Lucy Ellman has a new book out - hurrah! I've loved her work since Man or Mango: genuinely funny, inventive and take-no-prisioners writing. Long-listed for the Booker, but don't let that put you off. If you need shaking out of a reading rut, she'll do it.

5a. It's published by the amazing Galley Beggar Press. Support small presses where you can - they take risks where other, bigger, publishing houses won't. 

6. And finally, this. Because we need love around here, and lots of it. Plus it's going to look awesome in the bedroom when I've finished decorating in there...

Getting In My Own Way

Surprised everyone I know when I took up yoga a couple of years ago, not least myself because I'd always assumed that as a curvier (insert own adjective and then burn it) person, all I would do is sweat a lot and embarrass myself in front of the thin, lathe-like yoga bunnies. And that I would get in my own way. 

Turns out I was right on 2 counts. 

I do sweat a lot and parts of me get in my own way but I'm never embarrassed. Everyone is too busy trying to get themselves into the same damned pose whilst worrying about farting/smelling sweaty/falling over. Yes, even the lathe-like ones. They have gut microbes too, people.

Even so, I couldn't help thinking that to fail to sit up very straight seems like kind of an epic fail. Except that I did a one-armed side plank later that evening, so nuts to that kind of thinking. 

Also, it was too damn hot. Why does yoga man never put his fans on? Does he secretly hate us? Or have a mutated genetic thingie that means he never sweats? I shall watch more closely next time to make sure he blinks...if I can keep my glasses on. Last time they slid all the way down my sweaty nose and landed with a sad thunk on the floor.

Now We Are 43

So today I reached the grand old age of 43 and how much better is it than 33 or 23? 

IMMEASURABLY BETTER! 

There's no getting away from it, and nor do I want to: I'm enjoying my 40s more than I ever did the previous decades. Becoming more comfortable in my own skin helps. I'm now more likely to think "fuck it" and go for a birthday swim without worrying about what people think about my thighs, backside or upper arms. Nuts to them, I love being in the water and no side glances are going to stop me. 

Plus, my short sightedness means I can't see the side glances. Ageing has many benefits. 

Of course swimming does make a person hungry, so this was my lunch, hoovered up within minutes of getting home...

 Seriously, this was a huge box of broad beans. I spent 40 minutes double podding the feckers. 

What hasn't been smashed has been frozen for emergency, post-swim, post-yoga dinners. 

 

BROAD BEAN SMASH (or, Poor Man's Avocado)

Ingredients:

• Box of broad beans brought from local farm shop for a fiver
• Coriander
• Lime
• Sea salt

 

Look how cute they are when podded! Like little wee kidneys in the palest of greens!

How To:

• Pod the beans and simmer in hot water for 10 mins.
• Drain and leave to cool for 20 mins.
• Sit down with a podcast and double pod those mothers (i.e. remove the grey outer skins). This will take a while and can be fiddly, hence the podcast as a distraction.
• In a large bowl, smash the beans with a fork or masher until mostly smashed.
• Add chopped coriander, lime juice and zest, and sea salt to taste.
• Serve on toasted crusty bread. Add a fried egg if you need more substance to your lunch.
• Revel in the glorious green. Eat. 

 And this is 3/4s of the way through, when I remembered to take a photo. 

Seriously, this tastes damn good and has none of the slimeyness of avocado. 

 Follow with raspberry pancakes because it's your birthday and you damn well will if you want to.

Take a nap.

Middle Way or the High Way?

This year, after 8 years of living on my own, I made the headlong plunge into living with someone again. 8 years since my ex-husband moved out, 9 years since our relationship hit the rails so hard, I wasn't sure any of us would come out alive. 

It has been a strange 8 years by any stretch and come with the proviso that the Kid has lived with me 99% of that time. There is a big difference, however, between living with your lover and living with your child. The first and foremost being that you can, to a certain extent, dictate the rules to your kid, but it's not really on to try it with someone who's supposed to be your peer. 

And I should say right here and now that the Kid is now 21 and living at home while they save for a house. It's like having a flatmate but one who looks uncannily like you and who knows where all the emotional blackmail buttons are hidden...

So there I've been, mindlessly minding my own business and getting on with the job of living in a way I want to. Leaving clothes where they fell, changing the bedding as often as I wanted (once a week, whaddaya think I am?), sitting up in bed reading till midday, making only toast for meals. I have wandered where I want and with whom I want. 

I have filled the shelves with my own books and found things; the freezer with the foods I love; my days with the things I want to do. Slept in the middle of the bed. Had a bath as often as I damn well pleased. Smoked, not smoked, smoked again. Realised that living in a village surrounded by mud and oomska for 8 months of the year when I hate mud and oomksa (both of which are very different to gardening dust and soil) is no good thing for any sanity. Realised that living in a village where the light is gone by 4pm in November and the nights are so slow-black sloe-black that you could scream Milky-Woody-rhyming-couplets at the top of your lungs and no one would hear.

Left the country for the town, left the town for the city. Changed jobs, changed houses, hung the pictures on the walls I wanted. 

Dealt with grief and joy in equal measure. Sat with the feelings, absorbed and examined them, kept some for my mental backpack, lost others along the way. Turned vegan, turned back, went halfway there again. Took up meditation, fell asleep, took down meditation. Dealt with health issues, new births, old deaths. Ditched the TV. Read over 100 books in 12 months just because I could. Took up yoga and surprised myself. Surprised my family. 

Listened to Radio 4 and eddikated myself. Listened to 6 Music and discovered new bands. Went to gigs for the first time in decades. Saw films I would never have seen, discovered a love of the hokey horror and stilted speech of the old Hammer Horrors, Godzillas and King Kongs

Wore the clothes I wanted with no one around to ask "does my bum look big in this" or to put their head on one side and say "are you going out in that?" Lost 4 stone. YES you read that right - 4 stone: the slow drip of pounds coming off and back on and permanently back off again has punctuated the days of these 8 years. 

I have pupated. Shed the chrysalis of my old self. My wings are battered but they carried me and the Kid through the world with a strength no one knew I had till it was tested. I am me with a carapace, with balls on, with an armoury of self-resilience. I can deal with my own spiders (with much squealing, eyes shut and a need for a hefty drink afterwards) and empty my own bins. 

So pity the poor man, especially one who had imagined himself living blissfully, serenely, peacefully alone for the rest of his days, coming head to head with me over where plants should be planted or pictures hung. Do we build the chest of drawers now or next week or when the heatwave/my temper breaks? How many times has that dishwasher been on today? Have you used fabric conditioner in the laundry? Why do you have the bath water so hot? Does this meal have meat in it? Why do you do everything so quickly? Why are those pictures crooked? Do you really need to keep that? How many copies of The Crow Road do you have? How many pairs of trainers do you need? Are you really only using half of the wardrobe space?

I work fast, in order to get things done and out of the way, thereby giving myself more all-important lying-down-and-reading time. He does things carefully, with meticulous planning and measuring, and with exquisitely painful slowness. As he takes measurements, I hop from one foot to the other, whining about how it's fine, hurry up, yes of course it's straight. 

As I fling paint, plants and pictures around with merry abandon, I feel him wince. Heard him say with more dismay than admiration, "god you're quick" as I rollered a triple length of wall within the same space of time he'd taken to do one. "Did you mean to get that much paint on you? Can you actually see out of your glasses now?"*

Surely, he suggests, as he gazes ruefully at the positioning of a plant he'd had his eye on for the back garden, now firmly set in the front, surely there is some middle ground. 

Middle ground. The OED defines this as "an intermediate position or area of compromise or possible agreement between two opposing views or groups." When I look up compromise (purely for the hell of it and because I'm stalling for time because really, really really, I know he's right but I'm not willing to let this go quite so easily), I read that "the secret of a happy marriage is compromise" but also that compromise means"the expedient acceptance of standards that are lower than is desirable."

Aha! I cry. Accepting standards that are lower than is desirable! And then I realise that he's not listening, he's looking at the crooked pictures again. 

Bugger.

*not really, was the answer. It was like looking through a yellow mist. Yes, our living room walls are yellow - it's like living in a bowl of custard and I love it.