Good, Dawg

Hello.  Hello hello hello.  Sorry.  I know.  Been a while.  I have no excuses to offer other than the usual "I was far too easily distracted to focus on writing a blog post" which I know is lame and weak and terrible.

Anyway. We're all here now.

In a nutshell:

1)  Job news.  I had a job interview a while ago, following an unexpected email.  I thought the interview went well, and they told me at the end of it that I could expect to hear back from them in a "few days."  Almost two weeks went by, then I finally got the long-awaited email.  In it, they told me that they had decided to go with Agency staff rather than taking on someone for the short term.  Fair enough, but what annoyed me was their statement that their Agency staff had started work "this Monday."  I got the email on the Thursday. So, they must have known they were going to hire Agency staff at the end of the previous week, and could have emailed me a week before they did.  Which would have saved me a week of anxious (borderline obsessive) email-checking.

Gah.

However, on a more positive note, I have actually got myself a different job. It's part-time, only a few hours a week, but it is within walking distance, doing something I like.  I shall be a supper cook at a large residential care home, which is something I have become quite interested in since poor old Father-in-Law WithaY went to live in a nursing home.  It makes such a huge difference to his day when his food is prepared just how he likes it.  I like to think I could make that sort of positive contribution to peoples' days too.

I'm waiting for them to get the relevant references and security clearances sorted out, and then hopefully I can start work shortly.  The best thing is that it will allow me to get on with other catering work-related stuff during the day, AND do social stuff in the evening, as the hours are so handy.  

2)  Home improvements.  We've had the garage transformed from a fetid, cobwebby filth pit into two smart rooms, one to be a workshop for Mr WithaY, and the other to be a storage space for the planned catering business.  We need to get the wiring done, and new lights fitted, but after that I can get a decent freezer and a blast chiller/fridge in there, and we're good to go.  I'm still waiting for the local environmental health people to come and inspect the kitchen, but once they've done that I think we can start with all the "making and selling tasty treats" activities we have in mind.  


Mr WithaY spent most of Thursday painting both rooms a smart shade of magnolia.  There was a second coat on Friday, and then he painted the floors with some special floor paint.  I think it reduces slip hazards, or increases traction, or keeps the dust down.  You get a plus-6 buff on your Stamina stats when you walk on it.  It kills ants.  Something.


The only downside is that the back garden is stacked high with all the fetid cobwebby shite that was in the garage.  In the rain.  We have to sort it out and decide what we'll keep, and where we'll put it.


On that note, we put some things by the front gate with a "FREE! Take me home!" sign on them.  An old wooden kitchen chair.  A cassette/radio player.  Some assorted oddments.  But by far and away the most popular were the Kilner jars.  Father-in-Law WithaY was an avid bottler of fruit, and when we cleared out his house there were about 70 Kilner jars, many with fruit still bottled up inside them.  We put the jars in the garage.  Come reckoning day, out they came again.  The fruit - whatever it was - had turned brown and fragmented, lurking in thick viscous jelly.  I made an executive decision that there was no way on Earth that we were going to eat any of it, so spent a jolly afternoon prising the lids off, dumping the contents into many, many big plastic sacks, and putting the empty jars through the dishwasher.


As an interesting aside, the addition of 9 year old sauerkraut to a giant bag of mixed mystery bottled fruits creates a pungent and powerful aroma that stays with you for days.  Days.


I digress.


The clean jars and lids were put into boxes and placed outside, where they were rapidly snapped up by incredulous passers-by.  One lady said to me "If you come home one day and find a jar of marmalade on your front doorstep, it will be from me, as a thank you."  Nice.


One chap was less pleased.  He stood looking at the jars for some time, humming and hawing.  I happened to wander out into the front garden and he said "Are these Kilner jars?


I said they were.


"Aren't they supposed to have rubber seals?" he demanded.


Mr WithaY wandered over and told him that rubber seals could be bought via the Internet very easily.


"Hmph.  Well.  I don't think I'll bother," he grumbled, and drove off into the sunset, disgruntled and jar-less. 


3) Grand days out. We went to the Chalke Valley history festival  last weekend.  Well, Mr WithaY was actually taking part, as a dashing swordsman. He and our mate from Gloucester went along on Friday (in the posh and comfy motorhome) and I went with some friends on Saturday for a day out.  We took a monumentally excellent picnic, the sun shone and there was a flypast from a Spitfire.

I'm rather proud of that photo, given that it was flying a looooong way off.

See?  There are some of the crowds, watching it going back and forth over the showground.  See it?  Almost directly over the apex of the big white tent.


I took an even better photo than that, if you can believe it:

I went to one of the talks - a discussion on the life and work of Elizabeth David, supposedly - but it was a bit disappointing.  Of the three panellists, one was a biographer, one was a food writer and the other was the chairman of the Guild of Fine Food (I think) but they managed to make the hour feel like an awkward dinner party conversation between people who disliked each other and only socialised because they were forced to  through work.  A shame.


Other than that, an excellent day.

I like the juxtaposition here of the Roman gladiator, the Medieval knight and the two seconds for an Eighteenth Century gentleman's duel.  Apparently the chaps being gladiators were picked for that role because (and I quote the knight there) "They're the only skinny bastards in the group."

I particularly liked the chillout tent, fitted out with squashy sofas and a couple of classical musicians, filled with people of a certain age* reading the papers and drinking tea.  Civilised.  Now that's what I call a history festival.  


We're definitely going again next year.  


4)  Family addition.  This is the most recent, and the most significant, event of note to take place in the WithaY household.  We are about to hear the patter of tiny paws.  No, I'm not having a baby.  With paws. That would be freaky and wrong.  No, we're getting a dog.  I feel the need to shriek like Daisy Steiner when I say that, but I will try to refrain for the sake of Mr WithaY's sanity.  She's black Labrador, a breed which I think is actually compulsory in this village, and she arrives next week. She's 4 months old, is already called Hester, and is absurdly cute.  


Her current owner brought her (and her brother Henry) round last night.  They both peed on the kitchen floor - something I suspect I will have to deal with more than once in the next few weeks - and then spent some considerable time finding onions in the vegetable rack, carrying them carefully to their owner, and dropping them at his feet.


This activity exhausted them, and they both fell asleep on the kitchen floor, waking only to come with us into the sitting room where they both fell asleep on the new dog bed.  Awwwh.  


So.  Expect numerous and probably dreadful posts about how cute/clever/obedient the new dog is.  They are likely to be a tissue of lies. LIES.  









*About my age, probably

Feastival Time

May?  Already?  Gosh, is it really?  I've been so busy with, um, stuff, that I didn't notice.

Ah, I can't lie to you.  It's not true.  I haven't been particularly busy, at least not with anything interesting, or semi-interesting, or even mildly amusing.  My life has evolved into a slow, steady pattern of daily domesticity and occasional semi-inspired creativity in the sewing arena.

Actually, the Sewing Arena sounds like the world's crappiest full-contact game show idea.  Like Gladiators, but with thimbles and rouleau loop hooks.  And an ironing board.  Maybe I'll pitch that idea to Channel 5.

So. What have I been doing to fill my time, other than making frilly flouncy stuff out of fabric?

Well, I have been making a lot of chutney.  That's not a euphemism.  I went to the farmers market again last week, and bought another huge box of tomatoes for a fiver, went halves on a huge box of gorgeous red peppers for another fiver, picked up a dozen brilliantly red chilli peppers for three quid, and bore the whole lot home in a state of high excitement.

I made two more batches of terrifyingly spicy tomato chutney.  Apparently you aren't supposed to eat it for two months after you make it.  We're shovelling it down before it's cold in the jar.  Mr WithaY took some away with him to his bushcraft course last week, and the people there were asking if they could buy it.  Excellent.  He said that things turned ugly and there were almost blows exchanged for the last spoonful in the jar.  He may have been exaggerating, but even so.  Yay me.

I also made Hugh Fearnley-Whatever's recipe for sweet chilli jelly.  Unfortunately, I didn't have proper jam sugar, so it hasn't set into a jelly.  I swore a bit, considered the issue, regrouped, and decanted it into the empty vinegar bottles (washed, of course.)  Hey presto!  Sweet chilli dipping sauce!  And, dear readers, it is delicious.

Yesterday I went to the Shaftesbury Feastival.  Yes, there's a FEAST right there in the name.

I drove out with a mate* to an industrial estate on the edge of Shaftesbury, from whence we took the teeny park and ride bus.  We went via every single municipal car park in North Dorset before finally being disgorged into the marketplace, where this glorious scene greeted us.  Imagine it with a blue sky, and less of a biting wind.  That's not how it was, but it might make you feel more spring-like.

There was an impressive balloon arch, courtesy of the local dairy, who had also provided a life size model cow with real squirting teats that children were being encouraged to milk.  They didn't seem keen, and frankly I can't blame them.

Look children!  It's leaking water into that bucket!  Go and grab it by the rubber udder and have a good old squeeze!

Nuh-uh.

There was a Maypole, complete with white-frocked little girls with flowers in their hair.  It was charming.  They stood there in the Siberian gale, fierce concentration on their faces, clutching the ribbons grimly.  A bloke with a mandolin played folk music, and they skipped around in complex patterns, weaving a pole-long plait.  And then they did it in reverse and un-weaved it, which I found even more impressive.

The thing that appealed to me most was the fact that Shaftesbury has a special Maypole Slot in the street, usually covered with a manhole cover.  Fantastic.  How many other towns have year-round Maypole access when required, eh?

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Shaftesbury, there is a gorgeous walkway along the edge of the Abbey walls, with a view across half of Dorset, and that's where the majority of the food stands were sited.

This is the start of the Parade O' Food, and this is the view across the valley in between the stalls.

There was bread, from several local bakeries, but I liked the look of this stall best.  The owner was being very cheeky, offering us his "small soft Italian." I told him I prefer mine larger and firmer, and he said "I get told that every week..."

There was a giant paella...

A whole roast pig....

 Chillies, olives, peppers, capers, garlic and all manner of savoury nibbles......

We saw posters for the upcoming Dorset Knob Throwing contest, which made us laugh immoderately.

In the craft stall area, along the main road, there was this rather excellent hearse, full of vintage handbags.

The local junior schools were selling teas and snacks in the town hall, and as we were walking back through the town to head home, several small children had obviously decided to increase their marketing area, and were standing in the middle of the thoroughfare with trays of food, holding up the crowds, asking people "Wanna buy a sandwich?" which I thought was very entrepreneurial.

So.  A grand day out.  I shall definitely be going along next year.

Other news:  It's been raining almost endlessly for what seems like a month.  My garden is battered flat, but there are strawberries starting to grow in my newly-planted tubs.

I have also applied for a part time job locally, as I am starting to go a bit mental from not being busy enough.  Fingers crossed, eh.





*Hello Jo!

Recycled humour

I found this today, while I was having a tidy-up of my hard drive.  You know how it is, heaps of old documents on the floor, faded photos drifting into the corners, unlistened-to music piping away mournfully.  It's a nightmare in there, like an episode of How Clean Is Your House.  But virtual. 

So I decided to clear out some of the junk today.  All the old work documents from three jobs ago, stuff I have five copies of in different folders, photos that I have scanned and edited and no longer need the huge originals of. 

I think this was part of an email to a mate, but I can't remember now.  I wrote it before I started blogging, so it's at least three years old.  Maybe older. 

My favourite story in the local paper this week is the one about the local Morris men performing to the local skate park regulars after a sign saying they were starting a bit later than planned had been "blown down by the wind". The assembled crowd of "about 20 people", not seeing the blown-down sign, gave up and went home. Apparently the "youngsters" ended up by joining in with the dancers. On the bandstand. In the rain. With floodlights. I wish I'd been there.


I was given a leaflet about the forthcoming Warminster festival the other day. There's a great endorsement from Lord Bath on the back - a picture of him looking a bit startled, as if they've snapped a shot when he wasn't expecting it, possibly whilst he's answering his front door, and a quote:

"It is of great interest to me when my local town chooses to put on a Festival. I know that I shall enjoy it as much as everyone else."

My interpretation is: "I'm not involved, but I understand there's something going on locally. I don't imagine anyone will enjoy it much."

I still like that idea of Lord Bath being startled by the photographer as he opens the front door at Longleat.  I shall miss him now he's retiring.  If you are going to have a local aristocrat, he really ought to be completely bonkers.  We'll have to see how his lad performs in the role of Insane Local Grandee.

At least I'm not posting up all the other stuff I deleted.  Small mercies, eh?

Festival time

There is a low, loud droning, groaning noise coming up the stairs from the sitting room.  Mr WithaY has bought a didgeridoo.

It's amazing what you can find to buy at a festival.  We came home with a selection of hemp clothing, some geckoes made of copper wire, a couple of CDs and a didge.  All the cool kids call them that. 

 
Indeed, I am sitting here wearing my new hempen t-shirt as I type.  I feel like a proper counter-culture heroine.  It's only 26 years since I went to my first festival*, and finally I feel like I''ve got the hang of it. Yay me.
 
We saw sooooo many bands.  Here, let me list them and make you go "oooh, they sound interesting".

 

There were several venues.  The Garden Stage is the big outdoor "main" stage, where we sat in the glorious sunshine and watched Mumford and Sons, then Loney Dear, a bonkers Scandinavian chap.   
 

 
 
Then there was the Tipi Tent.  This was a huge wooden and canvas venue, made up of about three big tents all linked together.  There was a bar selling cocktails (and cider) as you walked in, and lots of cushions and padded boxes and things scattered on the floor in front of the stage.  It was decorated with hundreds of strings of lights wrapped around the poles, and was really rather lovely. 
 

 
 

 

The cocktails were splendid.  They were offering a Hedgerow Something Or Other, which we decided to try.  I  asked the bar girl what was in it.  "Mostly gin," she replied, grinning widely.  Mmmmmm gin.

And raspberries.  And some sort of fruit liqueuer.  So probably at least one of the recommended five-a-day fruits and vegetables. 

We sat on the squishy cushions, drinking cocktails and watching an artiste called The Sliding Rule.  He was a youngish skinny guy with a mop of black hair, who played an acoustic guitar.  Well, eventually.  First he spent ages using what looked like a long twig, or possibly a feather, as a bow, then an actual violin bow to make loops of ethereal sounds, before playing his song over the top. It was interesting to begin with, but when he decided that he wanted to get off the stage to "be among the people" we looked at one another and decided to go and find another band. 

 We checked out the Big Top Stage, a huge marquee with a great light show, and saw The Tenebrous Liar, then later the Duke and the King, who were superb.  In fact, we ran into them later on, and had a quick chat, when they told us they were doing a "secret show" in the Tipi.  We went back there at about 10.30 pm and sat and chilled till they appeared, then watched them play again.

Apart from the horribly, noisily, clumsily drunk Australian girl who managed to spill drinks all over the place (including on me) it was pleasant and laid back.  Mr WithaY got chatting to a couple sat on the floor beside him, who had driven up from Plymouth, breaking down and getting lost many times en route.

 

They seemed pretty cheerful about it, and as the conversation progressed, the reason for their frame of mind was made clear to us.  It's amazing what people will tell you when they have absolutely no idea who you are.  They explained to us all about how they had grown their own dope, dried it, minced it up and turned it into festival-going fags.  For all they knew we could have been off-duty drugs squad officers.  We aren't, as it happens, but they had no way of knowing that.  Seems you get less clever the more stoned you are.  Who'd have thought it, eh?

Anyway, the Big Top tent.  We saw a young American band called Motel Motel who were superb, and then Beth Jeans Houghton, who stepped in to cover for a band who had cancelled. She and her band were excellent, and I will definitely go and see them again if I get the opportunity. 

I took some pictures of the tent itself, because I thought it was rather well done, and a very blurry picture of Beth Jeans Houghton which I like, despite the blurriness. 

The final venue was called The Local, and was a mouse-eaten marquee with a stage at the far end, nothing grand at all.  We saw Emily Barker and the Red Clay Halo in there, an all-girl band who were lovely.  Again, definitely worth a look if you see them playing anywhere.

The highlight of the weekend for me, other than the Fleet Foxes, was the Saturday lunchtime session by The Leisure Society.  I've heard their stuff on the radio** before, and they were simply breathtaking live.  It was the session that everyone was talking about over the rest of the weekend, they are clearly superb musians and were just lovely to listen to.  The chat between them and the audience was good too, self-deprecating and cheerful, and most entertaining.  We bought their CD, and I am listening to it as we speak. 

Other bands we saw, or heard as we sat drinking tea, included Wildbirds and Peacedrums (very loud and clearly insane), the Dirty Projectors, Explosions In The Sky (hugely loud even with earplugs in), Alela Diane (sweet easy listening stuff), The Week That Was (not sure about them, we were drinking cider at the time).  And the Fleet Foxes, obviously.

We were right at the back, so the sound quality was excellent, but it did make taking a photo of the band well-nigh impossible. 

One of my favourite spots was the Tea Stop, a double decker bus cleverly converted into a tea room, with a garden outside.  We sat on their comfy double deckchair and enjoyed tea in the sunshine on more than one occasion.  Very civilised.

One visit was enlivened by the sight of a young man with extravagent Wolverine-stylee facial hair sitting on the top deck, having a cream tea. 

Me:  Look!  Up there!  It's Wolverine, having his tea!

Mr WithaY:  Where?

Me:  Up there...at the end of the bus!  In the window!  Look...he's pouring tea from the teapot.

Mr WithaY:  But his mighty metal adamantium claws will shear off the spout!  How will he grip the teacup?

Me:  But, looking on the bright side, he can use them to spread butter and jam on his scones.

We tried taking a photo but it was too far away and we were trying to be discreet, so you'll just have to imagine it. 

We met some amusing people, particularly the two chaps sitting on a bench in the woods, admiring a beautifully lit tree.  We stopped to admire it too, and then took some pictures.  They were hugely impressed.  "We've been trying to photograph it for ages," they told us mournfully.  "It keeps being blurry."  I think that may have been their eyes, not the tree.  

....although, now I look at it again....

The woods had been decorated with lights, which I am a sucker for, and we spent a long time walking through admiring the sylvan loveliness.  

I was taken by the woodland library, but particularly by their selection of books.  Struck me as incongruous, given the setting and all. 

They had set up a few funky little installations around the site.  This one was being utilised by some musicians for an impromptu session. 

 

This one wasn't.

A nice time.  Just what we needed, I think.   

 

 
*A very lovely folk festival at Goodwood Racecourse in 1983.  Donovan was headlining.  Happy days.  In fact it was the Sussex Folk Jamboree, August the 6th, thank you Internet. 

**  http://www.bbc.co.uk/music/reviews/3wgb The Leisure Society review by the BBC

Fighting talk

Saturday already. Another work week gone, and bugger all to show for it apart from the bags under my eyes and some Thornton's chocolate money I bought yesterday.

Thursday was a NIGHTMARE on the trains. We trundled into Waterloo almost 40 minutes late yesterday morning due to a breakdown in Hersham.

After the first twenty minutes of painfully slow progress I rather felt like having a breakdown myself.

Instead, I did that terribly British thing of looking at my watch in an obvious manner and making a face implying that the freedom of the Western world was at stake if I didn't get to my destination on time. When we finally got to Waterloo I decided that as it was already late, I might as well saunter to the office in the sunshine, enjoying the views, rather than trying to fight my way through the Tube system.

I met up with a former colleague from my old job for lunch, which was very pleasant. We had a sandwich in Pret a Manger on Victoria Street while we caught up on each other's news, and it was very cheering. My stroll back to the office took me past Thornton's, hence the chocolate coin impulse buy.

Thursday evening was glorious, so I decided to walk back to the station. Earlier in the week I took the Tube. Oh. My. God. What a mistake. It was hideous. Hot, smelly, windy, filthy and smelling of a mixture of chips, filth, tunnels and people who have been sweating all day long. Ugh.

So, I left work at the usual time, and strolled across Westminster to Waterloo, only having to fight down the urge to pound people into the pavement a couple of times, several fewer than usual. Progress. Fucking tourists though. Bastards.

Special mention goes to the idiot hot-dog vendor who positioned his vile reeking wagon of filthy slimy glistening oleaginous "sausages" at the top of the steps leading up to Westminster Bridge, thus guaranteeing a huge congestion pinch point. Bastard.

Ahem.

Anyway.

I caught the train in plenty of time, found a decent seat, arranged my goods and chattels and buried myself in my trashy historical romance* for the duration. All was tranquil. The air conditioning was working, a treat after the appalling rail-guided sauna I travelled home in on Tuesday. It was all going terribly well.

Until we got to Andover, where they announced that due to an unspecified "problem" with the front three coaches, everyone who planned to continue their journey beyond Salisbury had to move to the back three coaches. Joy.

There was a mad stampede down the train, with a lot of grumbling and muttering** as everyone tried to find seats and spaces for bags etc. Everyone ended up settled but disgruntled. I was lucky enough to be in a coach with a family of screaming children.

Nice and relaxing.

I turned up my music and thought happy thoughts about how soon I would be in my nice comfy air-conditioned car, leaving the railway station faaaaaar behind. That seemed to work until Salisbury.

Aah, Salisbury. Normally I have a lot of time for you, and your gorgeous if intermittently appropriate architecture. Today, however, I am looking at you with narrowed eyes and dark thoughts in my heart. Why? Because the world's most ignorant man lives there.

Sorry, but he has blighted our love. This is why.

He was sitting on the opposite side of the aisle to me, faffing about with his laptop and sweating unattractively***. As the train neared Salisbury station he packed all his stuff away into a big square shoulder bag thing. He stood up, put the bag over his shoulder, then swung it round wildly, not bothering to look first.

It hit me.

On the arm, hard. Hard enough to bruise it, in fact. Look, a bruise.

Normally, I try to be considerate and make allowances for very stupid people. On Thursday I didn't. Instead of simply ignoring it and turning the other cheek, I said "CHRIST!" in a very loud voice, making him, and the bloke opposite me jump visibly.

He looked round in horror, and muttered "Sorry" as he stood there waiting for the queue of people to move towards the door. I was not in the best of moods, one way and another, so rather than graciously accepting his somewhat grudging apology, I said "Twat" in an undervoice. Which he heard. His ears went red and he scurried away.

I was half hoping he'd try to make something of it so I could stand up, loom over him and use my extensive and varied vocabulary till he cried. I think I may need to take up yoga or something.

The bloke opposite me was laughing, trying not to, his shoulders shaking as he read the paper. Heh.

When the train finally stopped at my station I had to carefully step over the recumbent body of a small child which was sprawled in the aisle, exhausted after the 40-minute tantrum it had been throwing.

God it was good to get home.

Fucking South West Trains. Sort it out. Ban idiots and make everyone use deodorant before they get onto the train. And issue the guards with elephant tranquillizers in case any children start kicking off. How hard can it be, for heaven's sake? Cuh.

Other news: The tickets for the End of the Road festival have turned up! Hurrah! We're going to see (among others) Steve Earle and the Fleet Foxes. In a beautiful garden. With parrots. Can't wait.

Other, other news: Get well soon to my lovely Eldest Niece who is in hospital, having tried to break up a fight between a cat and a dog, and spent over two hours having surgery on her hands as a result. Poor soul. I'd have hit them both with a fucking shovel.

The animals, not my niece. She doesn't often warrant a shovelling.



*Georgette Heyer, my guilty pleasure

**mostly from me

***I notice these things