The End of an Era

 18 months since the last post. Some sort of record. 

Lots has happened since then, of course, most of which will be all too painfully familiar to warrant re-hashing here. Bullet points relating specifically to the WithaY household:

• Neither of us has caught Covid, thankfully. Or not as far as we know, anyway. Those little lateral flow tests keep coming up negative, which may mean nothing at all, but we've clung to that, worn our masks, had our vaccines and (mostly) stayed healthy.
• We haven't managed to travel anywhere (like almost everyone else in the world) but Mr WithaY did venture over to France for a couple of weeks last summer, as soon as it was allowed, to visit his mother. The trip was a success, right up until the point where his overnight train from Toulouse to Paris was cancelled, and he spent the night sleeping fitfully in a train carriage, in a thunderstorm. He missed his Eurostar connection back to the UK as a result, and arrived home many, many hours later than anticipated. 
• Work for both of us has been variable.  All of Mr WithaY's work was cancelled very early in the pandemic so he decided to claim his pension a few years early, as a reduced income is better than no income at all. I was able to continue working all the way through the pandemic. 
• However.  Last week I was offered the opportunity to take redundancy - things in the world of bookselling are Not Going Well - which I took up. So this week marks the end of a 4 and a bit year stint with my current employer.  I might claim my pension a few years early now. I hear it's great.

Other than that, things have been more or less OK. The dog is still a source of great joy and comfort, even when she wakes us up at 5am by barfing loudly in the kitchen. Ah, Labradors.

Things which I am planning to do to fill the endless empty days include:

Writing. Yes, hello.

Dressmaking. Specifically, making a Regency style dress and jacket, because we're planning to attend a Regency picnic later this summer. I've never made anything from the Eighteenth or Nineteenth Century, so it will be an interesting project. 

Bonnet decorating. See Regency reasons above. I bought a bonnet "blank" from the Internet, and will be furbishing it up to match the dress I make. What larks.

Going swimming.  This is mainly because I treated myself to a nice new swimsuit and want to wear it. Bad luck, other members of the public. Prepare your eye bleach.

Experimental cookery. I've mastered making yeasted dough, something which always previously eluded me, and I am now keen to try out many other techniques - as I will have more time, why not? We bought a deep-fat fryer ages ago and still haven't used it, so I might crack on with some Japanese bar snack type food, which will be perfect for feeding to unsuspecting visitors over the summer.

So. Plans. All quite small-scale and domestic, but that's not bad thing. 

Pond life

 So how's your 2020 going so far? Yeah, same here. 

Thankfully I have been able to continue working throughout lockdown(s) but Mr WithaY has had pretty much everything he does cancelled since February. On the plus side, the dog gets longer walks and the garden has had loads of work done on it.

We have a pond now. Get us. 

We built it last year just in time for our 25th wedding anniversary party, and peopled it (fished it?) with five little koi carp, each about 3 inches long.  

They seemed happy, as much as you can ever tell with fish. Ate their food, swam about, sometimes did acrobatic leaps out of the water for no apparent reason. 

And then, one day, the pond was much less peopled (fished?)  Only one of the five was visible, and he seemed nervous. As if some huge winged predator has swooped in and eaten all his mates. We kept a close eye on things for a week or so, until we had to accept that some bastard bird had been at the fish.

The four missing fish were replaced - the replacements were all about 5 inches long.  The remaining survivor had grown and we didn't want him to bully the newcomers.

All was well. The new fish settled in, the old fish joined in all their antics* and we enjoyed seeing them at feeding time, when they all poked their little noses out of the water for food.

There was an exciting event one hot afternoon when Mr WithaY glanced out of a window to see what he thought was a scrap of plastic flapping about on the gravel around the pond. 

He realised after a few moments that it was not plastic at all, but one of the fish, who'd jumped about in a frolicking manner and fucked it up so badly that he'd landed completely out of the water. 

He** was scooped up and dropped back into the water, apparently unharmed and with a good story to tell his mates.

The original water fountain thing we installed has been replaced with a much larger waterfall, attached to a filter and UV light source to keep the water clean, so we can now see the fish much more clearly.

Unfortunately, so can the herons who live on the nearby river.

A juvenile heron started hanging about, landing on the edge of the pond one day until chased away by Mr WithaY, who immediately found all the fruit netting that used to protect the raspberry bushes from next-door's chickens*** and covered the pond with it. He then found sticks and string to build a complex anti-heron system guaranteed to prevent any fish stealing.

I ordered two large fake herons online (I love the Internet) which stand guard around the pond, probably traumatising the fish every time they look up.

Herons are surprisingly large, and seemingly fearless. If it landed on the back fence, the better to eye up fish for snacking purposes, I would open the back door and try to chase it away. 

It would look at me, clearly thinking "Oh yeah? Come on then, Spartacus," and not move until I was within 3 feet of it. Then it would flap its giant pterodactyl wings and bugger off a few yards into a nearby tree to watch from there. 

This went on for about two weeks, Mr WithaY and I taking turns to "chase" the heron off the fence. The dog refused point blank to go near it, obviously realising that her small soft snout was no match for a massive dagger of a bastard bird beak. 

Finally, having rejigged the pond netting and moved the fake herons around several times, the thing which put it off coming back seems to be the rotary clothesline. I think maybe it takes up valuable flapping space, or limits the amount of landing space or something.

Anyway, the heron seems to have moved to a neighbour's garden (and pond) where he avoids limited space issues by landing on the land outside and sauntering in through their gate.

Other news: Still enjoying my job, still buying far more books than anyone realistically needs.

Our planned road trip to France to visit mother-in-law WithaY had to be cancelled, so we're going to try and arrange something next year instead. All dependent on The Situation, of course.

I've been able to see my lovely sisters a couple of times over the summer but pretty much only in the garden, or in very very small groups, so no family get-togethers, which is sad. Yes, I know that the curtailing of family social events is a very small price to pay, and if that's the worst I have to deal with, then yay, but even so. I miss seeing everyone.

Dog walks have been remarkably sociable, because when you run into a neighbour walking their dog in a field you can stand two metres apart and have a conversation. 

The village pub has been doing its best to stay open, but we haven't ventured in. In fact, apart from work, I think the only places I've been since February are the hairdresser (once), the supermarket, and a fabric shop in Salisbury (once).  I found that so stressful that I've been buying dressmaking supplies online. 

And the petrol station, but only about once a month instead of every two weeks or so.

Life is odd. However, Mr WithaY are both healthy, as are all our families, so we are counting our blessings.

I'm very aware that I am in a slightly higher-risk category due to age, fatness and being female, so I have been perhaps more cautious than some. The winter will be interesting.

I have mastered the fine art of dough cookery! I can now make bread, Chelsea buns and Lardy cake. Hurrah. Also Chinese steamed buns, and wontons, although I bought the wonton wrappers for those.  

Chin up, best foot forward, nose to the grindstone, shoulder to the wheel etcetera etcetera etcetera.

Oh, and today (or tomorrow) hopefully the US election results will be announced and (fingers crossed) at least one part of 2020 will start to feel more positive. 

*swimming, mostly

**The fish. Mr WithaY is too big to scoop.

***No, it really didn't.

Recuperation

I'm bored.  Bored bored bored bored bored.  This is a clear sign that I am on the road to recovery, but it's frustrating to think I am only about halfway through the first stage of "take it easy" recuperation.

I'm having my stitches out this afternoon, which I am both pleased about and horrified by. Part of me wants to see the "wounds" as they are delightfully termed by medical people, part of me wants them to remain forever concealed under waterproof dressings.

Brrrr.

I'm still freakishly tired most of the time, and have been doing that thing that very small children and puppies do where they just fall asleep in the middle of whatever is going on at that moment.  Fortunately, most of what I am doing involves sitting on the sofa half-heartedly watching TV, reading a book or dicking about on my phone. It would be rather more alarming if I were, say, a brain surgeon or an offshore undersea welder.

It's great that I am feeling more like doing things, but it is frustrating because I think "Oh, I'll just do some ironing," or "I'll clean the bathroom windows," and then I think again and realise that no, no, I won't.  Not for a couple more weeks.

Mr WithaY is being hugely helpful, and our lovely neighbours are popping in with books, sweeties and chat, all of which are much appreciated.  On Saturday Youngest Sis and her husband came up to visit, bringing our slightly belated Christmas presents, which was lovely.  We sat and chatted, ate lunch, chatted some more, opened our presents and drank tea, while the dog went BANANAS with her Christmas gift:





She gnawed it till the squeak stopped working, and then contented herself with rolling around on her back, holding it between her paws and playing with it.

Hopefully later this week I will be able to go out for a walk with her and Mr WithaY, at least partway round the village.  I can't tell if my legs are wobbly because I am still so tired, or because I have hardly used them for 10 days.

I'm missing being able to cook anything much.  I might order a box of marmalade oranges and pop them in the freezer to make some more Seville marmalade when I can heave pans about again.  I'm also planning to make fruit jellies; I always loved them as a child and recently found some interesting recipes to try.  I think I ought to wait a few more weeks before I start experimenting with boiling sugar though.  Safety first.

Choppy

Hey, hello!  Remember me? I used to post stuff on here fairly regularly.  More than once or twice a month, anyway. I hope at least some of you are still hanging in there, waiting for something to appear.  I'd still do it even if it was into an empty, echoing void, but it feels somehow friendlier to imagine one or two people reading what I write.

So. What's new with me, I hear you ask?

I now have TWO part-time jobs, as well as the fledgeling catering business, so my spare time is far more limited than it has been for the last 18 months or so.  I'm really enjoying both jobs, one as a cook and one as a waitress/barmaid in a pub, both within walking distance, both of which get me out of the house and allow me to interact with lots of people.

The new business progresses slowly but steadily too.  We've had some business cards printed, have advertising arranged in a local publication, and have a few jobs already in the calendar. We have to get some dull statutory stuff sorted out before we start "properly" but we've got plans for that too.

One of the things that needed doing was setting up an account with the local Cash and Carry store.  For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, a Cash and Carry is a huge warehouse full of enormous ENORMOUS boxes of foodstuffs and catering/hospitality supplies which you buy at prices far below those charged in supermarkets.  The idea is that businesses are able to effectively buy in wholesale quantities and thus make a profit when they retail the products, or use them in their hotel, or pub or whatever.

You have to have joined the organisation and have been sent a membership card before you are allowed to shop there, and in order to join the organisation you have to be able to prove that you have a business.  So.  It was a big day when I was able to go to Trowbridge and fill in all the paperwork which allowed me to take my giant industrial shopping trolley round the aisles.

Well.  It's like Aladdin's Cave in there.  If you imagine Aladdin's Cave to be full of 100kg sacks of rice, and giant multi-packs of cotton wool, and mustard in vats you could bathe in.  We scampered round the warehouse in high glee, exclaiming over the things we found.  Huge pots of jam.  Teeny tiny pots of jam in packs of 100.  Gallon jars of pickles.  Ickle teeny tiny individual plastic containers of pickle, sold by the box of 250.  Bazillions of napkins.  Booze.  Varied and interesting catering equipment.  It was fantastic.  Honestly*.

We loaded up the trolley with about 200 different things, including antibacterial hand-wash (pack of 6), a catering first-aid kit, some smart white aprons, a box of bars of dark chocolate**, assorted flours, sugars and butters, and headed to the checkout.

The system is basic but effective.  A cheerful man with a hand-held scanner swiftly beeps everything in on the trolley, hands you the bill, and then you go across to a lady behind a glass screen to pay for it all.

The temptation is to spend far more money than you need to because everything is a BARGAIN.  I will go infrequently, armed with a shopping list, otherwise any money I'd save on low prices will be negated by the sheer quantity of things I buy.  They have ENORMOUS jars of Nutella.  I'm only human.

I've also been buying BARGAINS at the farmers market.  Most recently it has been ginger.  I picked up a 12 kg box of fresh ginger for £2.  TWO QUID.

Once the thrill of cornering the Wiltshire ginger market faded, I had to decide what to do with it all.

I've crystallized a lot, for sale as part of the catering business:

I made a batch of Japanese style pickled ginger, which I hope will turn pink in due course.  The recipe promised that it would:

And, ahahahahahaaaaaaaa clever, I grated a lot of it, froze it in ice cube trays in 1-teaspoon portions, and now have them all bagged up in the freezer for when I need fresh ginger for something.

Some of the crystallised ginger has since been richly enrobed (oooh, get me) in dark chocolate, and I have to say it is pretty spectacular.  I think a lot of people will be getting ginger-related gifts for Christmas.  

One thing I learned: if you chop and peel a lot of ginger, it makes your fingers burn, and if you later rub yourself in the eye, it REALLY burns.  So try not to do that.

Top tip there.

I've also made plum jam - 2 types - and my first ever batch of Chinese plum sauce.  Readers, it is delicious; tangy, not too sweet, heavily scented with star anise.  I will definitely buy another box of plums and make more.

As part of ongoing business development  I bought a box of proper matching jars (and lids) in two different sizes, and it's amazing the difference it makes to see chutney or jam or whatever all in the same type of jar, rather than in recycled (as in the ginger above) pickle or mayonnaise jars.

What else?  The dog, of course.  She continues to be a delight, despite the occasional bout of stomach trouble.  The colitis has cleared up now, and she seems to be back on top form. Although we did have The Day of Vomit the other week.  I gave her her breakfast, which she scarfed down in a matter of moments, then promptly brought the whole lot back up again, in its entirety, onto the rug in the sitting room - the only carpet in the whole of the downstairs.  Perfect target identification, dog, well done.

So, I thought "Ah well, she can wait till lunchtime now," and we carried on with our day.  She ate her lunch and seemed fine for a few hours, dozing peacefully at the top of the stairs outside my study.  I was working hard*** on the computer, and I thought she was fast asleep, until I heard odd wet slurping sounds.  I went out onto the landing, and was greeted by a thick rope of dog vomit, consisting predominantly of grass, which the horrible, horrible animal was about to try and eat.  Re-eat?  Whatever.

I cried out in disgust, then (in even more disgust) picked up the solid lump-o'-vom and carried it outside to the bin.  Gah.

Again, she'd managed to barf it all up onto the carpet, rather than either the tile, stone or wooden floors in the rest of the house.  Well done, dog.  She's so clever.  I'm very proud.  Here she is, placing her order for a walk.

"I'll take this one please.  With extra cowshit for me to roll in, and a plentiful supply of grass to eat.  Oh, and some partridges to startle.  Make it so."

Good job we love her.   She likes to sleep like this, stretched out against the sofa.  It can't be comfortable, she's twisted like a corkscrew.  That white thing under her head is her fleecy blankie that she brought with her from her parents' place when she moved in.  She goes and fetches it from her bed when she wants to go to sleep.

I recently loaded Instagram on my phone.  I can take brown 1970s stylee photos like a pro now.  This is from one of our favourite walks:

Other news:  I have had a drastic haircut.  I know I mentioned it before, but here are photos.  You lucky people.

I'm fortunate to have naturally thick, wavy hair, which has (mostly) retained its natural colour, apart from the occasional brilliant white one.  As my hair is very dark, the buggers really show up.  Bah.

For about the last 10 years I have had it fairly long, which I liked.  However, a few weeks ago I was sitting reading a book, and I realised that my hair was irritating me.  It had got long enough that when I leaned back in my chair, I leaned on it and pulled it, and when I leaned forward it fell over my face and got in the way.  I went to put it up, and as I did so I thought "I always wear my hair up nowadays."  It had got too long to wear down, so it was always clipped up off my face.  And in a blinding flash of inspiration, I thought "Hey!  I could have it cut off, and wear it loose again!"

I had 10 inches cut off.  Look, here it is:

And here's the end result, please note the extra-attractive red anxious face.  Hair is much shorter, and I think rather excellent.  It's easier to manage, only takes 5 minutes to blow-dry rather than 25, and if I brush it upside down it looks like I've spent ages styling it.  So. Hurrah for impulse decisions that pay off.

It occurred to me several days after I had it cut that I could have saved all the cuttings (clippings? trimmings? whatever) and donated them to that charity that makes wigs for children who've lost their hair.  I was really cross that I hadn't thought of it at the time, as my hair was un-dyed, un-permed and in jolly good nick.  Next time I have a lot off I will do that.

Other head-related news: Mr WithaY made a fox hat.

He worked very hard on it, cleaning and treating the skin to make sure it wasn't going to rot or shed, and then designing the hat, cutting it out, and sewing it together by hand.  I refused to let him use my sewing machine, I have to admit.

Anyhoo.  One evening when I was working in the pub, he came in for a drink and was telling the chaps at the bar about his new hat.  They encouraged him to go and fetch it to show them.  He did so.

They, being farmers and robust Wiltshire country chaps, were very interested in how he'd turned a dead fox into an item of attire, so Mr WithaY was explaining the process.  I and the (much, much younger) barmaid listened in.

Mr WithaY:  ...so once you've cleaned the skin, and dried it a bit, you have to tan it, which takes ages.

Farmers:   Oh yes.  Yarp.  Oo-aarrrr.  (etcetera.)

Mr WithaY:  ...and once it's been tanned you can start cutting it out.

Youthful barmaid: Tanned??  What....with fake tan?  Why did you do that to it???

I think she was imagining Mr WithaY trying to do a makeover on the fox.  Some fake tan.  Eyelash implants.  Painted claws.  Vajazzle the tail a bit.

I'm afraid I bellowed with laughter in a most unladylike manner, and had to go and stand far away till I'd stopped.

Continuing the wildlife theme, the mole has been wreaking havoc in the front garden.  Not content with building a scale model of Silbury Hill in the middle of the lawn, he seems to have reconstructed the entire Western Front trench system in the flowerbeds, and thrown up several smaller hills around the edges.

Bastard.

Life is, in the main, very good.  We're both still enjoying life away from the full-time rat race treadmill thing, and are finding plenty to do to occupy ourselves.







*We don't get out much
**For making cakes. No, really.
***Playing World of Warcraft.  I know, I know.

Playing Chicken

I went to my first ever village planning meeting the other week.  Well, I say planning.  It wasn't really.

It was a consultation exercise, chaired (I use the term very guardedly) by the Parish Council, to discuss the planning impact of a proposed new agricultural development a mile or two down the road.  There's a disused chicken  farm, which has been disused for at least four or five years, maybe more; the owners now want to redevelop the land to put a new all-singing, all-dancing chicken farm there.

When I say "all-singing, all-dancing" I don't think that'll be the chickens themselves.  I may be wrong, of course.

Anyway.  The plans said that there would be a large number of lorries travelling through the village (narrow roads, few pavements, already awkward to get through when there are large vehicles coming the other way) which was hotly contested by the increasingly furious village people at the meeting.  There were also concerns around the removal/disposal of "foul waste" - chicken shit, I guess - and presumably dead chickens that failed the assault course and swimwear sections of the final rounds of their training.

The meeting was loud, poorly-managed and grumpy.  Things were not improved by the arrival of the local pretend police at the start of the meeting, sauntering in casually in their stab vests.  Nice touch.  Nothing like some not-really-police-officers arriving in uniform to reassure the disgruntled attendees that things will all be lovely.

So. The upshot of all the ill-tempered arguing was that the people who own the current chicken farm are pretty much adamant that they will be developing their property, and it will be a huge battery "broiler chicken" farm before much longer.

At one point the chap representing the developer said "Well, it's all very well to protest about it, but you all like this sort of chicken!" to which there was a loud, sustained roar of "No we don't!" from the audience.  It was like the world's most middle-class pantomime ever.

I'm not vegetarian, or anything like a vegetarian, but I do buy eggs and meat that are British, free range and locally-reared, preferably from one of the independent butchers we have in town.  I am aware that I am fortunate in being able to make choices based on my personal ethical preferences, rather than price.  It was, however, very amusing to see the look of dismay on the chicken farm owner bloke's face when he realised that most of the people glaring at him were not his target market for two-for-a-fiver chickens.

In other news, I went to the market this morning.  No lemons this time, sadly, but there were bargain tomatoes.  A huge boxful for a fiver, which have been transformed into nine large bags of chopped tomatoes (stashed in the freezer) and four jars of extremely spicy chutney.  I followed a recipe which was called "Spicy Tomato Chutney", but would more accurately be called "Suicidally Hot Tomato Sauce, Eat In Very Small Doses, It Would Help If You Like Mexican Food."

They were lovely, and not one was blemished.  This is about a third of the box.

I also bought a large lump of fresh root ginger and four huge aubergines (for another fiver) which I plan to turn into (respectively) apple and ginger jelly, and a moussaka.

Maybe two moussaka.

Moussaki?

Moussakas?

The weather continues to be shit, with torrential rain and hail at regular intervals.  Today it's windy as well, just for some exciting variety.

Last week, while Mr WithaY was away, I went through a bit of a miserable episode, mostly my own fault for not going out and doing stuff.  I was busy with some sewing work - proper for-someone-else sewing - and thus ended up not leaving the house (or garden) for about three days, and by the time I realised why I was miserable, I was really miserable.  I self-medicated with chocolate and Futurama, and made a full recovery, you'll be glad to hear.

I also made a determined effort to get on with some of the boring housekeeping jobs which I have been putting off for ages.  I have a voice in my head which says "You might as well do the ironing, you're already grumpy," and I tend to listen to it.

So, with a zesty spring in my step, and my sleeves rolled up purposefully, I took the arm caps off the big sofa and handwashed them.  This was by way of a test, as they have labels saying "Dry Clean Only", but I wanted to find out if they would fall apart, bleed colour or shrink to buggery if they were immersed in water.

You'll be relieved to know that they didn't collapse into threads, lose all their colour or turn into jaunty egg cosies, so I stepped things up and put the actual sofa covers into the washing machine, with a devil-may-care attitude.

That's how I roll.  Like a 1930s housewife, with a bad-ass attitude and a Dyson.

Wrestling the covers back onto the cushions took longer than it should have, and would probably have been a prizewinning video clip on You've Been Framed, had I had the foresight to film myself doing it.

Which reminds me.  The other week, before the weather went all shitty, I was out in the back garden, pegging out some washing.  In a bizarre Norman-Wisdom-esque sequence of events, I managed to get my glasses caught on the rotary washing line as I was turning it round, half dragging me along, before flicking my specs into the currant bushes.

You couldn't make it up.

Jam jam jam

The theme of this week in the WithaY household (other than work, sleep, work, sleep, deal with domestic stuff, sleep, work) has been jam.

Plum jam, to be specific.  We don't have a plum tree in the garden, although there are plans afoot to do some clever planting and espaliering (sp?) in the future.  However, Father-in-law WithaY has a tree in his garden, so when we called round to the house at the weekend on the way home, we decided to pick a few plums.

I think we ended up with about 40 pounds of fruit.  So, we ate some, we put some in a bowl to take to Father-in-law WithaY at the nursing home, and we looked at the remaining 38.5 pounds of plums.  What to do, what to do?

Jam.

Obviously.

We got everything ready...sugar, plums, water, recipe book, jamjars....perfect.

Please note, that little bowl of plums is the one we took to Father-in-law WithaY, not the one we used for the jam. 

We cut the plums in half, took the stones out and boiled the bejeezus out of them for a bit. 

Then we added the sugar and boiled them a bit more.  There was a degree of confusion about the correct amount of sugar.  We had to multiply the recipe by 3.  Or was it 4?  Anyway, there was a rapid and irreversible escalation of confusion which ended with me being sent out of the kitchen in disgrace to think about what I'd done. 

Mr WithaY continued with the jam making alone. 

Anyhoo, some time later, we had jam.

Lots and lots and lots of jam.  If I wasn't still on my weight loss regime (stone and a half so far, slow and steady, thanks for asking) I'd be scarfing down hot buttered toast with home-made plum jam like a machine.  A MACHINE.

We still have quite a lot of plums left.  Suggestions on a postcard.

Creative cookery

There was a great story on the radio today.  People were sending in tales of how they had cooked meals anyway, after discovering they had run out of a key ingredient.  Using salted peanuts in a chilli when they found they had no salt, that kind of thing.

Someone sent in a tale of how they were making a lovely stew.  Mmmmm stew.

They made the stew, and then prepared to make the dumplings.  But oh no! No suet!  And we all know a stew isn't a stew without the delicious suety goodness of dumplings.  What to do?

Apparently the hapless chef looked out of the window at the bird table, and had a dreadful, dreadful idea.

He ran outside, grabbed the block of birdfood suet and brought it into the kitchen.  He shaved off the "dirty bits", then grated up the remainder to make dumplings.  And only told his wife what he'd done several days later, when it was all eaten up. 

The wages of sin

Boy did I have a hangover this morning.

As a result, I have spent much of today staring blankly at my PC screen, in between drinking glasses of water and pegging out washing in the sunshine.

We had some mates round for dinner last night; I didn't think I'd had a huge amount to drink, but apparently I fell asleep on the sofa as soon as they left, and had to be woken by Mr WithaY to go to bed. I seem to recall that I ran up the stairs, loudly stating that I was sleeping in the spare room, and then crashed out gracelessly until 4am, when I woke up with the hot and cold shivers and the feeling that I was about to throw up. I didn't, but was too sleepy/pissed to get up and go to the bathroom just in case, so lay awake, feeling queasy and sweaty by turns.

Bet you wish you'd been there, eh?

Oh, and the clocks changed overnight so I now have no idea what time it is, adding to the whole surreal experience.

Anyway. Before the evening developed into a near-death experience, it was all very nice. I made a cherry clafoutis for dessert, which I hadn't attempted before. Was bloody great, and remarkably easy.

It's basically a deep buttered dish filled with a sweet pancake style batter with a load of cherries spread through it, baked in the oven for an hour or so. The batter rises a bit and surrounds the fruit, and the whole thing is pleasingly light yet soggy. Or maybe that was just my cooking.

It's been a beautiful day, although bloody cold in the late afternoon when I was bringing in the washing. But, now that I think about it, maybe that was just me, being tired and a bit queasy still.

I am far too bloody old to get that drunk. It takes me 24 hours just to start feeling normal again! Gah.

Fish

It's snowing again! Blimey. Drove home this afternoon from bestest mate's house through some amazing special effects wrath of God hail and rain, and now it's snowing.


Saw my lovely Mum a couple of times over the weekend, she seems to be making good progress and was in much improved spirits, which was great to see. The care she has been getting is (mostly) excellent, the less than excellent stuff has been duly reported and dealt with by the rest of the hospital staff.

Went out for dinner on Saturday night with bestest mate after calling in at the hospital and had a HUGE bowl of Pasta With Stuff at Prezzo's. Was very nice, but far too much, so had to leave quite a lot, which I hate doing. Which is why I have such a fat arse, of course.

Saw Middle Sis and Youngest Sis, and resepctive families, which was nice too. Everyone was feeling much happier, as things are improving so much. Youngest Sis's little dog was very entertaining too, frolicking about and being an idiot.

Mr WithaY is still away, having decided not to come home for the weekend, as it would be a ridiculously long round trip. I think he is home on Friday next week. No idea, though, what time. And given my track record, it might well be that he gets home on Saturday, or Thursday night, or a week on Wednesday. So I am feeling a bit lonely and sad.

He managed to ring me one night last week to tell me how it was all going. Apart from having to get into a river, which was "bloody freezing" and falling off a log, or down a hole, out of a tree or something, and bruising himself considerably, it's going terribly well, apparently. So that's good to know.

Had a bit of a hissy fit earler when I went to cook some supper and couldn't light the oven. Cursed and swore, then remembered Middle Sis telling me that her new cooker (v similar to mine) had the same problem until the clock on it was set correctly. Ahahahahahaaaaaaaaa. We had a power cut the other night, didn't we? And I hadn't set the oven clock since that happened. So, I pressed buttons on the cooker at random till the clock numbers changed, then managed to light it. Hurrah.

Half an hour later, hot fish galore. Mmmmmmmmm.

And, assuming we don't get a foot of snow overnight, up to London tomorrow for another week of big city frolicks.

Bath time

I'm off shopping in Bath in a little while with a lovely mate. She found out this week that she was successful in her Very Important Interview, and therefore needs to buy suitable clothes for a scary London job.

And (ha!) she asked if I wanted to come with her. So, of course, with my fantastic sartorial track record, how could I refuse?

My plans, other than saying "Mmmm, that looks smart" a lot, are to look at spoons* in Habitat, maybe think about curtains if I see anything I like, and possibly get some more earrings.

Haven't been to Bath for months and months, possibly not since Eldest Niece was here in the summer, so it will be fun to look around a bit.

And then, later, when I get home, I am making marmalade. On a whim I bought 2 kilos of marmalade oranges yesterday, and spent an hour slicing them insanely thinly**. They have been soaking in a bowl of water overnight, as per the recipe, and now need to be cooked for an hour with a shitload*** of sugar till it marmalises.

Right. Time to find shoes that won't rub my newly-healed blister to bits again.



*At, not into. Although I might do that too.
**After I got them home, not while I was still in the supermarket.
***Official British measurement of quantity, American readers.

Broken

Well, I feel like I have a cold now. Bloody great. Woke up with a sore throat and sniffed unattractively* through my meeting this morning. Lovely.

My lovely guitar teacher has fractured his hand (playing cricket, the careless idiot) so no lessons for me for a bit. And of course he can't play guitar either, so his band might be a bit grumpy too.

Other news: Mr WithaY's car seems to be improving slowly, but it is still too screechy and scary to drive any distance at at speeds of over 30mph, so I have been taking him to work and picking him up in the evenings. It's rather nice. Maybe we will car share more often. It takes me about an extra 10-15 minutes, but it means we save fuel, and I like us both getting home at the same time.

I have been smitten with a cooking bug (so to speak) and have been perusing recipe books for inspiration. I might make brownies later. Or soda bread. Or a pie. Can't decide. Will definitely be baked though. Unless it's soup.

Oh yes, we need some date recipes. The fruit, not the chronological things. Mr WithaY's runaway successs re: the quince chatroom makes me feel confident that we wil find something suitable.

Am listening to Rush "A Passage To Bangkok". Bloody great. Funny how you go through phases of liking stuff. And now it's The Sweet's "Hellraiser". All good desk-based music.



*I did have a tissue but sometimes you just have to sniff.

Slash and burn

My preferred gardening style.

Spent an hour or so outside yesterday hacking stuff down*. God it was satisfying. Filled the green wheelie-bin with bits of rose bush, weeds, clematis and other assorted stuff that looked like it was dead. Well, it is now, anyway.

My hands are a mess though. Even with gloves on, the evil bastard Sleeping Beauty stylee brambles which have started to colonise the front garden managed to hack me to ribbons. Big thorny fuckers.

Still, they are stuffed in the bin along with loads of other stuff, so who's laughing now? Not the brambles, matey.

Other news: Discovered Scrabble via the web. As if I didn't spend enough time on the internet. Spent a satisfying hour playing via Facebook. It's great when you discover that your mates are just as evil and over-competitive as you.

If I could hook up a life-support system I'd never have to go out again. In a bubble thing. You know the sort.

Once again, the future is NOT what Star Trek promised. Gah.

(Note: I was going to put a link here to a previous "why isn't life like Star Trek" rant, but it's buried in the middle of the huge single posting from when I transferred from MySpace to Blogger. So if you're interested, you'll have to go right back to the start and find it yourself. Sorry.)

Am planning on making moussaka this afternoon to feed our mates when they come over tonight. Never made it before but how hard can it be? It's just a lasagne with ideas, really. And if it's shite I'll make some nice bread or something to draw their attention away.

We're all off to play Airsoft tomorrow**. That's where you get given a modified AK47and run round the woods blasting your mates with biodegradeable ball bearings.

Excellent.

I came home from the last game with loads of interesting bruises, especially the long line of small circular ones all the way up the inside of my leg, up over my tummy*** and over my shoulder. I was creeping (I thought imperceptibly) towards some enemy players, but they spotted me and raked me with machine-gun fire from about 3 directions.

Arse.

So it's shameful because you're crap at sneaking, and painful when they hit you. I might suggest it as a teambuilding thing at work. Heh.



*In my garden, not just at random.

**If it's not raining. In the event of inclement weather I will be in front of the fire with a cup of tea and a good book.

***Quite a long way