Tuesday 23 June 2009

Are We Nearly There Yet?

There is nothing quite as nice as checking your train ticket and packing your bag ready for an adventure. I'm off on my hols this evening, an over night train, breakfast in Glasgow, over the Highlands in a little train, across some water where dolphins might follow the ferry and then onto a bus for what must be one of the most beautiful bus rides anywhere.

On the wall, opposite my desk at work, I have a calendar and I've been gazing wistfully at June, which happens to have a photo of where I'm going. It will be quite strange to have been looking at the idyllic scene at work one day and overnight, to step inside the photo. I wonder if anyone in my office will look hard enough to see me on the horizon, just above Friday, 5th June? I think I might actually be a little bit off the picture to the right, where there's a join in the wallpaper. You might have to catch me as I walk across from the bus stop - I'll wave.

Another calendar in the office has a lovely photograph for July. Somewhere we used to go on family holidays when the children were little - a craggy beach in Cornwall. Flipping through the pages I find myself looking forward into the past. Buckets and spades, damming beaches, body boarding on the waves, cups of tea and pasties on the cliff top in the late afternoon sun, skin tingling from the sea. Dusting sand out from between your toes before getting back in the car and bumping along the field and back onto country lanes.

It won't matter any more if the computer keeps hanging, if the new multi function machine actually does less than the old printer, or whether the drive to greater efficiency is just slowing us all down.

I'll be waiting to see where the calendar on the wall is taking me next.

Saturday 20 June 2009

100th Birthdays and Subconscious Brilliance

I went to the newsagent's round the corner to buy a birthday card this morning. I was looking for a 'happy 40th' but noticed, at the top of the column of cards, was a stack of eight identical 'Happy 100th Birthday' cards. I thought the newsagent was optimitstic that there would be 8 people celebrating their 100th birthdays in the local area before the cards go a bit off white/ (you know what's coming now) taupe/ecru/bamboo/cream. Or, as soon as one person hits 100 in the area, they'll be getting eight identical cards. They had wisely avoided the blue or pink themes, and had hedged their bets with a brown and gold effort.

The fortieth birthday party was an extremely cool affair, it was in fact a music festival. How impressive is that? Being confident enough to know you have so many friends, you can make a whole music festival happen.

Sadly I couldn't stay long as I had to get to a fundraising quiz night, where my piece de resitance was knowing that the Isle of Wight was called Vectis by the Romans. It's odd, I didn't even know I knew it, it just happened. How many other useful things do I not know I know, and how can I unlock them (other than by persistent attendance at quiz nights, waiting for my subconscious to jump into action?). The GP sitting next to me was also surprised he knew about Pixie someone being the current number one. I think we should all go to more quiz nights, we might eventually find that we are fluent in Sanscrit or something seriously impressive. In the end we came second and won some wine, obviously my one useful contribution made all the difference there.



I've run out of ideas, maybe I should go to the pub quiz tonight

Friday 19 June 2009

Falling for Feathered Friends

I flew a hawk this week, at a conservancy. It was quite strange, because carrying it around on a thick, leather gauntlet meant we were on eye level with each other. After a short while, I started chatting to it, then strangely, felt like we had bonded.

We learned how to fling it forward into flight and then take a chick's leg out of a shoulder bag and wait for it to come back for its snack. The chicks' legs felt a bit spooky when you rummaged in the bag, but I thought I would be brave and just get on with it. At the end, the hawk's treat was to have a full baby chick to eat. As the tutor flipped the whole chick casually onto my gauntlet I had to look away, like I was having an injection. I could hear rather gruesome tearing noises as the hawk tucked in, and saw the faces of those watching contort in disgust. When I was fairly sure he had finished, I looked round to see some chick gore had splashed onto my mac - I was reminded, momentarily, of Jackie Kennedy with the brains of her husband splattered over her Chanel suit.

Moving swiftly on, I also flew a very large and exotic owl, who looked extremely fluffy and appealing, and a pale barn owl - I had never noticed how wonderful the freckled pattern across their wings was until I saw it at full stretch in flight. The vultures were unexpectedly very appealing and wore an ernest expression coming towards you, landing with a hefty 'plonk' on the glove.

My all time favourite, though, has to be the bizarre Secretary Bird. This spindly, awkward creature has very long eye lashes, clown-style orange painted face, frilly crown of feathers sticking up on its head, and the thinnest legs I've ever seen. Down to the knees it has black feathers that look like it's wearing knickerbockers. When it runs it scampers along flicking its legs forward in a brisk, elongated goose step. It was such a fragile looking thing it was a bit of a surprise to find out it killed snakes by kicking them. It must pack quite a punch in those thin pins. The one we met was quite tame and kept bumping into the keeper when she turned around.

It was tall, it was clumsy, it looked funny and it ran funny - you couldn't help but fall in love.

Tuesday 16 June 2009

Bed Time Bliss

Oh, the deep joy of the lie in. Wake up, think you've got to go to work, then a wave of pure happiness washes over you as you realise you can roll over and doze off again. You can indulge in a little concern about whether you should nip downstairs to put the kettle on and retreat back into duck-down heaven with a cup of tea. If you do, make sure the tea is just the right shade of brown, which is a little stronger than for the rest of the day. (It's helpful to have a bed time assistant who's good at taking instructions and can do this for you).

Bed-time happiness is down to the knack of buying the best bedding. You spend a lot of your life in bed, so don't be scared to indulge. When buying bedding, find the duvet and pillows that most closely resemble clouds. The bliss of your head sinking into your pillow as the edges come up and caress your face is worth every penny. Don't be alarmed by that off-putting over-tight packaging, it's fun to tear open the plastic and watch your pillow or duvet inflate out like a life-raft. The duvet should waft up when you snuggle in, but need batting down gently with an elbow to ensure uninterrupted air flow for breathing (this avoids those tiresome help-I'm-being-suffocated-by-a-monster dreams).

The mattress should make you feel like an astronaut floating in space, all your worries sinking into those handy pockets with the springs in (it's been proved in laboratories in America that they can't get back out again).

If you lie on your side to get to sleep, you should choose your wallpaper with care, as you need something relaxing to look at. Children have novelty wallpaper with teddy bears and cartoon characters on it. Perhaps adults should have wallpaper with old masters on it, Leonardo Da Vinci would be delighted to know he could have a job anytime with B&Q, turning the Mona Lisa into a printed motif for 'finest' wall coverings. It would make decorating fun too, can you get the two halves of that smile lined up properly, or will she forever look like she has forgotten something at the shops and is chewing her lip? Regular patterned wallpaper should be avoided - it's annoying when you're going to sleep as you can't help but make geometric shapes by mentally joining up the flowers/blobs etc. That's too stimulating for bed time (and I'm sure you'll agree, the last thing any of us need at bed-time is over-stimulation).



Don't be disheartened, I don't always look this good in the mornings, I'd had time to do my make-up before the photo was taken.

In Praise of Meringue

I went to a garden party at the weekend, and there was a plate piled high with a pyramid of the most scrumptious, voluptuous meringues, oozing cream from their middles. Because of the usual meringue ‘sandwich’ format you can eat four, and actually, you’ve only had two. Pop a couple of strawberries on the side and it’s one of your five a day, healthy eating meals. Add to that the fact that they are mainly air, and there is no reason you should ever stop eating them.

Some creative culinary types make them into splendid pavlovas. I know why they’re called pavlovas too, because you start salivating at the very thought. Acres of twirly, snowy landscape, floating on a sea of fluffy cream, with little brown crusty bits just waiting to be tweaked off and nibbled as antipasti.

The perfect meringue will not be bleached white like the disappointing ones in bakers’ shops, but homely off white/taupe/ecru etc (can’t get away from Adrian Mole’s socks these days, sorry), with crunchy outers and slightly gooey innards.

There is nothing akin to the joy of the diabetic coma inducing sweetness and cloud like fluffiness of the meringue.

All hail the meringue!

Monday 15 June 2009

The Thing Is......under my bath?

I'm still waiting for my bathroom to be done, it's taking a while. I was lying in the bath staring at the ceiling, as you do, and noticed two grey blobs. I felt quite confused, they weren't there the day before, and I couldn't really work out how anyone could leave marks on the bathroom ceiling without resorting to a stepladder and thick pencil. I would notice one of my sons walking round the house with a stepladder, as it would be a sight so unusual as to be remarked on. I forgot about the strange blobs until the next day, lying in the bath staring aimlessly at the ceiling again (I must get a waterproof radio or something), when I noticed they had gone beige/taupe/ecru/off white/cream/bamboo in colour. Mysteriouser and mysteriouser. When I got out and was enjoying a little buffing session with a cloud of talcum powder and a towel I looked up and saw, to my horror, that the beige/ecru etc blobs WERE MOVING AROUND. I hurried out to avoid having strange wriggly things dropping in my hair. They've gone now, I haven't a clue what they were, unless they are baby spiders from those spindly house spidery things that look uncomfortably similar to daddy long legs. I'm not going to look too hard, but I will phone the plumber up to hurry him along with the makeover. I hope he's not squeamish, he might find strange sausage sized creatures with too many legs crawling around under the bath panel.

Help! I'm scaring myself now.


'I just can't wait to meet the plumber, if he exists'

Sunday 14 June 2009

Qualms and Quarnivals

I found myself running a hospitality tent at a carnival yesterday (I have to try hard not to accidentally say hostility tent). It was a very jolly day - you might even say there was a carnival atmosphere. The main arena act was a pair of stallions with ladies clad in top hat and scarlet tails flinging themselves off the horses, bouncing off the ground and back onto these huge beasts. The trouble was, they made it look so easy, people didn't clap much. I recalled my foray into horse riding, and how I needed some steps and a hand to hold to mount my steed. The thought of just dropping off one side of him and pinging effortlessly onto his back (while galloping along rather fast) would have filled me with dread. I would have ended up doing an impersonation of Emmeline Pankhurst, only without the noble motive (time to feel guilty if you didn't vote in the European elections). Later on the announcement came over the tannoy that a community centre was doing a 'turn'. Expecting some ladies to perform crochet stitches, rather like that 'act' on 'Britain's Got Talent', I was very surprised when some strapping guys came out dressed in full Zulu gear (furry loin clothes etc) and did a very entertaining dance involving lots of stamping of the feet and snaking hips. I suddenly had an urge to find out whether this community centre needed new members.

When I got home, one of my sons was lying on the settee fanning himself with eight hundred pounds worth of fifty pound notes. I quickly abandoned any qualms about the demonic influence of poker in our society and extracted the rent money, which was long overdue.

Wednesday 10 June 2009

Calling Time at The Grey Horse

I walked through the back room of one of my favourite pubs yesterday. It's a room I've not seen empty before in nearly three decades of visiting. It's a room that is usually buzzing and pulsating with extremely noisy music and extremely sweaty people. The sound is buffered from the main bar by heavy swing doors with old fashioned etched glass panels and shiny brass handles. As you heave them open, a blast of music hits you like gas mark 9. A black-out curtain, that seems to promise the appearance of a magician's assistant in burlesque attire, hangs behind and you usually need to have your hand stamped with an indelible ink splodge to get further in. Along with a hangover the next morning, you'd have to do an impersonation of Lady Macbeth at your bathroom sink.

The stage looked undressed without the usual drum kit and over-sized amps. The air was still but suspended within it were memories of dancing and dangling off a boyfriend's arms, of shouting in friends' ears to be heard, and waiting ages to get served at the bar. Of standing up for so long your feet ached as you walked home, feeling slightly tipsy, with the bass line still throbbing in your ears. Of the shock of having the house lights turned back on and all the magic dissipating. Of standing in the street outside long after closing time chatting to friends, sharing jokes and stealing kisses.

The current bands have fluorescent flyers blu-tacked to the walls in the main bar. Favourite past bands have framed monochrome photographs hung higher up. I wondered how long it takes to make the transition.

We all still go at Christmas to do the dancing, drinking and achey thing. Now some of our children come too, the same age we all were when we first started going.

I suppose I know how long it takes to make the transition after all.

About thirty years.

Sunday 7 June 2009

Barber Shop Quartets and Thermo Nuclear War

I had a dream last night - about eating a 'pale' flavoured cup-a-soup. I was dunking bits of white bread into it. I didn't taste anything in my dream, so it was just like eating the real thing. Being bored in my sleep, which I previously might not have thought possible, I woke up, made my cup of tea and sat back to listen to Farming Today with a Suduko (easy). I'm now worried about the beef shortage we will all have to wrestle with in twenty years time. I don't know why I'm worried. I'm sure in the span of two decades I can find something more alarming to worry about other than the inability to make a spag bol - thermo nuclear war, the BNP taking dominance over Europe?

I should actually be more worried about my second soprano part in a Barber's Shop Quartet (a dozen women rather than the usual composition). It's quite wobbly - it takes quite a lot of guts to just go for the note. Every so often I would hear someone quite out of tune and feel sorry for them, and then realise it was me. I'm not sure whether I should offer to hang up my song sheets in sacrifice for the greater good of womankind. Trouble is, I've always dreamed of being Annie Lennox, trilling and warbling away, holding the audience in the palm of my larynx.

Perhaps I should go back to the cup-a-soup dreams.

Monday 1 June 2009

Better by Degree

It's that time of year when your child needs collecting from uni. It's easy to remember which house it is because of the traffic cone on the porch roof. You brace yourself for the empty beer cans, overflowing ashtrays and the heaps of crunchy clothes that appear to be in danger of being beyond the scope of any biological powders, whatever they say on the adverts. There is always at least one illicit shopping trolley on its side in the back garden, sticky patches of dried beer on the kitchen floor and a full size, slightly rusty, road sign warning you the hallway is narrowing soon. You trip over the iron that has been plugged into the socket by the front door for three months (not switched on luckily) and skid on the junk mail lining the hall carpet. If you have thought ahead, you will have used the facilities on the motorway, because the bathroom will not have any toilet paper in it, the bin will be overflowing with clumps of hair and dead razors and the dark stains under the taps will put you off wanting to wash your hands. When you tentatively ask for your cutlery and crockery back (which you had been looking for for several months) it appears that you need to do three weeks backlog of washing up to find it all. You don't get to meet the housemates, because although it is six o'clock on a beautiful summer's evening, they haven't got up yet.

Eventually you get home and unpack the car. Although you are delighted to have your loved one back, there is a niggling concern that your house will be looking more like a student dive again shortly.


'I think I drank too much last night'

*Disclaimer - Any similarity between the housekeeping habits described above and of any living human being are purely co-incidental. No member of my family would EVER live in conditions such as those above, which are purely the construct of my over-active imagination.