Hay and other fevers

Our brush with DOOOOOOOM* seems to have passed fairly quickly, compared to some people. I still have no sense of taste and very little sense of smell, and we are both still far more exhausted and achy than usual - even at our advanced ages.

Despite this, or maybe because of it, I am trying to get stuff done every day so that I can at least feel like I am being reasonably productive. Admittedly, sometimes that stuff consists of "an hour doing my jigsaw puzzle" but hey, it's SOMETHING.  

Whilst in the throes of plague I wasn't able to concentrate or focus, so anything creative was out. I have a couple of embroidery projects on the go (one has been "on the go" for at least 5 years) but lacked either the eye-focus or inclination to make any progress. I have a couple of new dressmaking projects in mind, and it's only been this weekend that I've given any real consideration to starting them.

Today I have baked a loaf of bread, and had a go at making gnocchi for the first time, using leftover baked potatoes I made a couple of days ago. The gnocchi had a splendid texture, and I am reliably informed that they tasted of "mostly potato." Result. 

I boiled them for 3 minutes, then pan-fried them in sage butter till crispy on the outside. Served piping hot with grated parmesan cheese and (because we're BEASTS) tomato ketchup. I am quietly confident that if Stanley Tucci made my house a destination on one of his TV shows, he would not be disappointed by the food. 

Appalled by the leering middle-aged woman serving it to him, possibly. 

It was Mr WithaY's birthday yesterday, and we had been invited to lunch with some of the lovely neighbours. The sun shone, we sat outside and drank the finest wines known to humanity (I couldn't taste them, so it was a waste of fine-ness) and had a truly memorable meal.

I took along a coffee and walnut birthday cake for dessert, and some jaunty unicorn and rainbow candles, which were all eventually lit at the same time - it was breezy in the garden. 

When it was time to go, I boxed up the remains of the cake (I did check with the gracious hostess if that was ok) and took it out into the garden. 

As we were saying our farewells, the boxed cake was left on a low wall. Within reach, it turned out, of at least one of the resident black Labradors.

 It seems dogs like cake. Who knew?

Anyhoo, we had a slice of it today (not from the dog-nibbled side) and it was still delicious. Apparently. 

All I could smell/taste was a faint whiff of coffee.  The texture was good though.

I'll be glad when my senses are back to normal, and I can actually enjoy food again. And no, I'm not getting thinner as a result of not being able to taste anything, which is annoying.

Today is a Bank Holiday, although I suppose every Monday could be viewed as a holiday from now on. 

I'm starting to half-heartedly look at job websites, but haven't seen anything I fancy yet. I definitely don't want a full-time job, and I don't fancy working at weekends, so my options are limited. 

I might just become a lady of leisure, and swan about wearing a big hat and a flowery frock all day. Or become a village busybody, in the style of Miss Marple, delving into everyone's business, whilst solving murders and drinking tea with locals of note.

Early days.  

*Covid. It was shite. 

Invisible

I am having the day off today because it's my birthday, and I want to enjoy doing stuff just for me.

In reality this means I will do all the washing, most of the ironing, clean the place and probably go and get the shopping.

Yay me.

Last night I realised with a sad shock that I am officially invisible now. I have reached the age where people don't notice me any more. It was all most disipiriting.

I was in the office till quarter to 7, because I wanted to get what I was doing finished, so I could take today off. So I got the 7:20pm train out of Waterloo, at least an hour later than usual, and thus saw a completely different commuting crowd.

I sat at a table, and was joined by a large elderly chap, a young lady with lots of bags, and a chap who, it transpired, knew two or three other people in the carriage. They all started chatting, I put my iPod in and settled down to read my book.

Now and again I would hear snippets of the conversation through my music, and the girl opposite me smiled at me in a friendly way whenever we made eye contact, but I was too tired to want to indulge in "strangers on a train" chat, so continued reading.

After what seemed a very long time indeed, the refreshment trolley arrived. I got my purse out to buy a bottle of water; there was much rummaging for wallets and so on from pretty much everyone else around me too. The chap next to me gestured expansively at the girl, and said "After you" so she asked for a glass of wine.

As she tried to hand over her money, he said "No, no, no!" and waved his own at the trolley attendant. "I insist! Let me buy you a drink! Put that away!" etcetera etcetera.

The chap opposite then asked for a beer, which the older chap made a song and dance about paying for as well. It was all rather awkward. The trolley attendant was very patient, getting the money eventually, after lots of jokes had been made about the lack of decent whisky on the train. How he must have laughed. Inside.

Once all the palaver had died down, I asked for a bottle of water, was given it, and paid for it, at which point the girl opposite me and the younger chap looked really embarrassed. The older chap continued bragging expansively at the other two, occasionally glaring at me if I moved, thus disturbing his huge flappity arms as they lolled into my half of the seat.

So. What do you think? Was I ignored because:

(a) He assumed I was a miserable grump who didn't deserve to be offered a drink along with all the other people at the table?

(b) He simply forgot to ask me, and possibly felt terrible all the rest of the way?

(c) He was making a point that those who didn't listen attentively to his endless anecdotes were therefore not in the "offered a drink" club?

(d) I am simply invisible now, being too old and raddled to be offered a drink?


Well, anyhoo, it's my birthday. I might make myself a cake in a bit.

Two things

Well, maybe more than two, but I had two things I wanted to say in particular.

First thing: Found out this week that an artist I like died. His name was Mick Cawston, and he produced the most fantastic pictures of British wildlife.

He also did paintings of anthropomorphisised (sp?) animals, like foxes being poachers. They were not to my taste particularly, but they were beautifully done, and very popular.

I met him once, years ago in a pub in Devon. We were down there doing a re-enactment and were all piled into a pub. I was chatting to a mate and noticed this distinctly dodgy old hippy staring at me. I ignored it, until he came and joined me at the table.

He was very polite, made a bit of small talk, then asked me if I minded if he painted me. I realised that the small suitcase by his side was in fact a portable easel, and said yes, of course.

Well, you would, wouldn't you?

He sat there quietly, and in about 10 minutes produced a fabulous painting of me, then added a couple of others to the picture.

Not something that happens to me every day.

I asked if I could buy the painting because it was (a) of me and my mates, (b) bloody excellent and (c) something I had just watched him do. He said no, he wasn't able to sell it. I bought him a drink and refused to give up.

He finally agreed to give me the picture on the condition that I pimped for him for the rest of the weekend and rounded up more "interesting looking people" for him to paint. I agreed, and he spent the next two days on and off on the pub with us, drawing dozens of pictures.

As the evenings went on and more and more drinks were bought for him, the pictures became more sketchy, but you could still see he was technically brilliant.

I asked him if he'd sign the one of me, but he said "No, my agent doesn't like me signing stuff like this." I laughed, assuming he was kidding, and took my treasured picture home with me.

Months later, looking through Shooting Times, there he was, a photo in a small advert for his work. The self-same dodgy looking hippy, now named as Mick Cawston, and described as one of the finest wildlife artists of his generation.

And I have a painting he did of me. In a pub. In Devon. I am very sorry he's gone.

The other thing, much less culturally significant...

This blog was ONE last week. Happy birthday to it. And they said it wouldn't last.

Words

Ah yes....when you have access to a lovely birthday cake, with candles spelling "Happy Birthday", it's surprising what you can find to do.

I amused myself by creating appropriate words for a birthday party...





Or warnings about eating too much cake...



Which would make you look....



Then I came up with the alternative Seven Dwarfs....











Ok, so there aren't seven of them. But I love the idea of Drippy, Yappy, Trippy and Haypit all taking turns to wash up and none of them daring to ask Hard to do it. Because he'd KILL them.

Off out...

...very soon. Going up to London to help Middle Sis celebrate her 40th.

It's still pissing down here, so the motorways will be a delight. We're stopping off at a supermarket on the way to get some stuff for the party. Fizz for the many, many children, probably some gin for me, beer for Mr WithaY and the other chaps, plus anything else that takes our fancy.

Had a very nice evening at home last night. Mr WithaY was a bit traumatised after his 2 day trip to London for work, what with the car bombs being found in the same area he and our mate Richard had been wandering round in that evening. As if London wasn't stressful enough without fucking nail bombs.

So we decided to stay home, have a lovely supper (cooked by me, domestic goddess that I am), watched an unexpectedly enjoyable film on TV and just chilled out.

Oh, and I had a very successful guitar lesson, which was great fun.

Hmmm...some Antipodean woman has just knocked on the door looking for someone who she thinks lives in the village. It ain't us.

Well, time to get dressed and prepare for the rigours of the trip. And the rigours of the party. Heh.

Inclement weather

I don't think it's stopped raining since Thursday night. That makes getting on for four solid days of rain. No wonder the roads are in such a state.

Driving to work this morning was distinctly scary. There are big patches of standing water everywhere, visibility on the dual carriageway was almost non-existent due to spray, and the verges on the more remote bits of the trip are starting to collapse onto the roads, promising roadblocks later in the week if we're lucky.

One of my colleagues was telling us about a nasty near-miss he encountered earlier today. A car in front of him hit a patch of water on the motorway, aquaplaned across a couple of lanes and smashed another car into the central reservation. My colleague was ok, but pretty shaken up, as you'd expect, having all that happen in front of him.

I am very glad I have a 4x4 with big old half-and-half chunky tyres. If I take it carefully I can pretty much get through anything. Within reason. Well, through mud and puddles, anyway.

Other than the weather, little of note has been going on in the WithaY household. Mr WithaY was supposed to go shooting on Saturday but it got called off. And why was this, you wonder?

Inclement weather? No.
Range too muddy? No.
Lack of access due to waterlogged roads? No.

The range apparently caught fire. Yes, really.

They've started using chopped up tyres as the backstop rather than the more traditional packed sand. Much cheaper. Great idea. But...

1) You can no longer rake out the brass cartridges to recycle them, as you can with sand. So, it's cheaper, but there's no recycling.

2) The bits of rubber end up getting scattered across the surrounding area which happens to be a SSSI (Site of Special Scientific Interest, American readers), so all the little rare creatures end up trying to eat them, or nest in them, or mate with them. I am guessing on that last one, not being a naturalist by profession.

3) And, lastly, and most excitingly, the bloody stuff is flammable. Unlike sand. And, when high-velocity rounds come winging into it, they can set it alight. Fantastic.

So poor Mr WithaY spend a slightly disappointed Saturday at home, in between ferrying me back and forth to the glass repair place, it being too wet to have them come and fix the car outside my house.

We watched Hot Fuzz on DVD on Saturday night. I enjoyed it more the second time around than I did at the cinema, oddly. Maybe because it felt more fitted to a small screen, lower expectations and all that. Last night we started watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy again. Got halfway through the first one before deciding we were too tired to see it all the way through.

Is it only me that wants to give Frodo a good slap every time he goes off into his "Oh no, I'm being summoned by the Dark Lord" fluttery-eye thing? Just STOP wearing the bloody ring! It's not difficult. You have ONE instruction you idiot hobbit, bloody well follow it. Gah.

It's not really a chick-flick, is it?

Still, the new Shrek is out any day now, which I am looking forward to. I love good animation. Maybe that's why I like Second Life so much, now I come to think about it. I'm hoping Channel 4 repeat their Studio Ghibli season soon. I missed some of them last time round. Bloody work. Getting in the way of my valuable leisure time.

Other news: What can I get my Middle Sis for her 40th birthday? I gave her a fab present earlier in the year but I can't turn up at her party without something with a bow on it. Maybe a tortoise? I hear they make great pets. Plus I could stick the bow straight onto the shell, saving on wrapping paper.

Although...Mr WithaY's life-threatening vomit-fest earlier on the year was most likely down to tortoise-handling. I reckon, anyway. So maybe not.