Podward the New

It just wasn’t going to happen. I had probably built up too negative an attitude to have been able to view the situation objectively but I definitely was not going to have any work done on my teeth today. My regular dentist was off sick so I was slotted in with the other dentist at the practice. I don’t think that I have even noticed him in the last umpteen years that I have been going there but of course when someone is about to poke around in your mouth you pay attention. You know how it is when you meet someone and you just don’t take to them? He shook my hand, limp and languidly, and a shiver ran down my back. I’m sure he’s a very nice man really but no way was I going to allow him to do more than prod delicately at my broken molar. Fortunately it can wait until my usual dentist is back work without coming to grief.

After that I treated myself to a wander around the shops which is something I never seem to have the time or the inclination to do these days. I had been killing time before I left in the morning by doing a silly facebook quiz, ‘How feminine are you?’ and the answer was only ‘A little bit feminine’ and I should trying wearing more dresses. With this in mind and the fact that Glyndebourne beckons I had a look around for something feminine and pretty. There were lots of pretty frocks out there just waiting for a dumpy little middle-aged woman to pop inside them and eventually I selected a promising garment and tried it on. In spite of the reassurance that I could still squeeze comfortably into a size 12 in spite of feeling like I have put on mountains of pounds over the last year (the trouble with sex is that it gives you an appetite, for food and for more sex, so careful eating stands no chance!) when I looked at myself in the mirror I just felt rather ridiculous. I abandoned the idea for the day, the grungy coloured top and combats went thankfully back on over my feminine curves.

It was actually quite nice to amble round the shops without any pressure, no time constraint for a change as for the first time in ages I had a day with only the one relatively minor obligation. Ok I still had to get home at some point and make dinner but that was no hardship as I was jut going to make the pasties that my wee one adores, and that makes cooking them a pleasure. The week behind was littered with some little bits of work-related disgruntlement. A whole heap of crappy feelings have been flowing over me in the last few days. I am feeling somewhat sidelined and marginalised at the moment. The staff structure has suddenly been ripped wide open with the departure of key sub-management peops and I now face a situation where I am the only person on the staff who has any concept of what I do, how I do it and why! I am doing a job that not even my line-manager really comprehends and therefore cannot fully appreciate for its unique and specialised nature. I’m just being grumpy I guess, maybe I’m overstating the importance of my work and giving myself airs and graces but I think replacing me would be a far bigger headache than anyone could possibly imagine.

I am between housework phases now. The brief surge that was directed by my sisters impending arrival for mother’s day weekend has long gone and the Easter/Spring-Clean/ Post-Building-Work phase is yet to come. And the way I feel today it could be a long way off.

So, this is the time of course when I start to notice little things that aren’t in the right place and little modifications that are needed – but I’m not ready to put it all in order. I haven’t got time anyway. Rehearsal for one play this afternoon, performance of another this evening so the bare essentials are being covered and that is all. I am choc-a-block until the 7th April – wall-to-wall work, performing and dancing. There isn’t even time to fart or sneeze.

I meandered into the lounge (sitting room I should say, lounge is so pretentious for who I am!), I am meandering everywhere today, and everything in there is just as it is, a bizarre collection of items scattered around which we fail to take much note of because it is ‘our stuff’ and we are used to it all being there. But I thought today that if I were a stranger coming in there are some things that might raise an eyebrow, or three. No, no, not the random collection of books that have spilled out onto the tables and floor from overcrowded and groaning bookshelves, or the various neglected and unused musical instruments tucked in corners, or the unnecessarily large collection of odd family photos. I’m talking about the other stuff. On the sofas and chair there are: a dog collar – not a dog’s one I don’t mean (we don’t have a dog), a pair of old-style handcuffs – manacles, a dish of pecans – still being worked through from Christmas and a quantity of dried rosemary leaves. Underneath the sofa is a half finished mosaic of a green man face. On the table is an open box of sharp woodworking knives. In the fireplace we have on one side a sculpture of a naked man’s back and bottom and on the other a section of tree that just happens to resemble a male pelvis, thighs and penis. On the windowsill is a collection of nasturtium, tomato and morning glory seedlings. On the floor is a half-finished jigsaw on a board and on the piano is a furry tweeting bird next to a wooden walking hedgehog.

And that’s quite a tidy day really.

‘Well, did you get breakfast in bed yesterday?’ someone asked me the other evening.
The answer was of course in the negative. Oh not because there is any reluctance on the part of my wee one to bring me breakfast in bed but because the weekend was a bit crazy full stop. Besides I have breakfast in bed most days. Especially in the winter.

I do not do the whole breakfast thing. Breakfast isn’t my area. As soon as my babes were able to prepare their own breakfast I was more than happy to leave them to it. It came as a great disappointment, I dare say, to my husband, when we embarked together on the joyous ship of married life that I didn’t strap myself into the life-jacket of an apron in the mornings to create a vast array of family breakfast. The iconic fifties style American all round perfect mother springs to mind, bustling cheerfully around the kitchen dropping golden manna toast on all and sundry dripping with the honey of life’s goodness and neatly and swiftly chopping through a mountain of fresh oranges to create pints of vitamin C yumminess to pour into the necks of the 2.2 children that would inevitably grace the breakfast table. I staggered through breakfasts with my children in a lost hazy daze of grumpy grouchy mess until they learnt to do their own. They learnt quickly, bless them, they are such a fantastic pair, and they have always made allowances for their sloppy slut of a mother. Mother’s Day breakfast in bed has been sprung on me many times, a feast of strange toast and lukewarm beverages, which has never failed to make me feel inadequate somehow. Children can be so generous and loving it floors you sometimes.

Breakfast for me as a rule means slouching down to the kitchen and liberating a bowl of Special K from the cupboard and hauling it back upstairs to my cosy berth to curl up and eat with my current read. You see I hate radio and television in the morning and my husband, along with most of the population, needs his fill of news and current affairs to start the day. I really don’t. I don’t feel the need to be invaded at breakfast time by people I don’t know, talking about doom and gloom, earnestly discussing the disasters of the world while I try to enjoy my food. I like peace, birdsong and time to awaken slowly to my own thoughts. I’m just funny that way I guess.

But no I didn’t have breakfast in bed on Mother’s Day, for a change, because we had guests. My sister and her man had come down to stay the night before so that she could pop in and surprise my mother on Mother’s Day, taking a huge and splendid lunch.

My mother has been making a lovely Tomato and Potato Curry for many years. I keep meaning to ask her for the recipe but while experimenting one day I came up with an alternative which we have rather taken to.

It’s pretty easy and very tasty.

1 onion, chopped
1 tabsp of curry paste (I use Balti)
1 tabsp of chutney (I use Moroccan Spiced Chutney but Mango would be good also)
Tin of chopped tomatoes
Sachet creamed coconut
Equal quantity of potatoes and sweet potatoes (we make for 3 so the amount can be adjusted to suit)

Boil the potatoes and sweet potatoes in salted water until cooked. Meanwhile fry the onion in a little oil until soft and then add the curry paste, chutney, tinned tomatoes and creamed coconut, stirring to mix. Combine the tomato mix with the potatoes and serve, with naans. This is a stodgy mix so if you like something runnier you could add another tin of tomatoes.

You have days, don’t you, when you feel like you’re wading through glue. Yesterday I was only at work for a half day and it took a huge proportion of the time I was there just amending our Emergency Contraception protocol. A few minor amendments I asked for. I got so much more than a few minor amendments and once I started trying to piece the additional bits in I ended up trying to re-write chunks to make it flow. I had to lay it aside eventually, it’s almost right but I need to look at fresh another day.

Today – day off – great. I have now come to the conclusion that I don’t want to lose my day off as it gives me a chance to do stuff which leaves the weekends clearer to be with my people. But today I cannot get on with much at all. I have the workmen in and there isn’t much point in trying to tidy – not that I want to anyway – or investigate unfinished projects as there are men at every turn. And it isn’t as though the garden is an attractive proposition today either as it is cold and windy so I am swimming round my goldfish bowl, idly gazing at the world. I find it hard not to be busy, I don’t really do relaxation - not rushing-around-busy necessarily, but definitely doing something instead of nothing type busy. We went out for the morning which has eaten up some of the day at least.

I have a couple of aces up my sleeve for this afternoon. I need to make some more cordial and I need to learn my lines for all the plays I’m in and I need to read some more of my book. I found a few more Agatha Raisins in the indoor market so I must crack on with my present read. If I have any time left I can always carry on with my whittling so I think I should be able to cover the afternoon in a scattered array of useful time-fillers.

Perhaps the glue is thinning a bit…

It’s more for research purposes than anything else really as I have to write another murder mystery for performance in the autumn. The last one went down a storm and I have been persuaded that I have not finished with the genre yet. So be it. So far I only have a title in mind, A Piece of Poisoned Pumpkin Pie. It is for a Harvest Supper entertainment so I thought pumpkins would be fun, I know they are more Halloweeny than Harvesty but what the heck, the idea is lodged now and there is no getting away from it.

Anyway back to Agatha Raisin. I consumed the first three in the series, hardly pausing for breath as they are even easier to read than Agatha Christie. I will probably buy some more soon but have embarked on a lightly longer reading project for a spot of balance and a slower pace. But Agatha Raisin is fun in addition to ultra lightweight. The character is like a bundle of prickles and a bit ouch-y at times, I squirm in my seat at some of the situations she finds herself in and feel the presence of real life knocking at the pages - though not the murder bits obviously as I don’t live in Midsomer. I’m not sure whether I find the character particularly endearing or not, she’s a bit like sandpaper, but although I found the stark simplicity of the books a little hard to get used to I have warmed to them.

I wanted to make some cordial, on a whim you understand, I now own a beautiful preserving pan which I like to find lots of uses for and cordials seemed like an easy thing to do. I hadn’t thought about where to buy citric acid though as it isn’t something on my regular shopping list. I thought about it for a bit and decided as I was near Boots to pop in and ask. Boots used to do a lot of home brewing stuff so I reckoned they might be able to advise at least. ‘Ah, no’ the young man said in hushed and helpful tones ‘we don’t sell that now, we used to. Drug users use citric acid to mix their drugs with so it isn’t so freely available.’ Oh great, now he thinks I’m on drugs. So I headed instead for the store that sells everything, the internet. The faceless anonymity has its advantages.

Anyway this cordial is quite delicious especially with sparkling spring water and you can use limes instead of lemons or even as well as. Oranges work ok too.

12oz sugar (preferably white)
1½ pints water
Grated zest and juice of 2/3 lemons (or limes)
1 Teaspoon Citric Acid

Dissolve sugar in water in a largish pan on the hob. Heat to boiling and simmer gently for 5 mins. Combine lemon zest and juice with citric acid and pour into the hot syrup. Allow to cool for a bit and then strain into bottle(s).

For citric acid try http://www.wilkinsonplus.com/invt/0022652

For bottles try http://www.lakeland.co.uk/F/product/11087_11086

Oh dear oh dear. I was going to be so much more regular with this….. but other stuff keeps getting in the way. Why is that I wonder?

So much going on at the moment is the problem. Next week the old boiler is being ripped out, not me the old boiler you understand, I mean the central heating boiler. And while the scaffolding is up for that to be done we are going to have the unsafe chimney taken down and the chimney breast ripped out of the spare room. A lot of ripping out going on. The chimney has not been safe, according to only one of many surveys in its history, since before we moved here 13 years ago, and has been happily perched above this room, effectively swaying in the breeze, all through the years that this room belonged to my second born child. I used to lie in bed worrying about it thinking about what an awful parent I was for letting my child sleep in here with the wildly rocking stack of bricks dangling above her head. I breathed a sigh of relief when she moved into the other bedroom.

It doesn’t rock, or even grumble in its mortar, there are no cracks in the ceiling, and apart from the seagulls which nest tucked in the lee of it there has been not a moments trouble with the chimney. It isn’t actually the chimney itself that is the issue anyway it is the fact that the chimney breast in the kitchen underneath here was ripped out many eons ago, it is only in my over-active imagination that I have this waggly chimney. In spite of many re-mortgages, well re-jiggings of mortgages, not one survey that we have had done in the last 10 years has even referred to it and it is going to take two men with scaffolding and big hammers to take it out so clearly it wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. But I shall be quite glad to have this sorted out finally and I won’t be sorry to see it go. Especially as it means that this room will be much bigger. The central heating boiler is also in here and that is going up a floor so this room will lose all the paraphernalia that made it a less than an ideal room for my little girl to sleep in, not that she does any more as she moved into the boy’s old room when he left. She always got the least appealing room when she was little because she was the youngest; before we came here she was pinned in a tiny closet of a room which my husband could lie down in and just about touch all four walls at once.

What else has been eating my time? Oh yes, my complete inability to use the word ‘no’ in a response to a plea has meant I am now rehearsing for 3 productions at the same time. I didn’t want to be involved in any plays during this part of the year as we are busy brushing up our dancing routines for the big event, May Day, when all people Morris will be tricked out in their finest array of bells and baldrics, hankies washed and pressed and sticks lovingly prepared. To be cast in one play was more than enough, two was pushing it, three is just sheer madness. I wouldn’t mind if it was because I am a fantastic actress constantly in demand but I am just there, a useful, obliging and multi-functional individual who can be relied upon to say ‘yes alright I’ll do it’. I play an old lady in one, a young lady in another and fortunately just sing in the third. The next couple of months in my diary look like someone had a major biro related accident.

Today however is relatively clear so I may find a few moments to upload some of the photos from our trip to Italy last week. It was only a few days but it was a glorious break, lots of blue sky and sunshine, freezing cold actually but still a lovely sunny few days. I will try and hold onto the thought over the next few weeks!

I picked up a large bundle of books in Waterstones one day so that I could blow my accumulated book tokens and because of the three for two I got more books. This was one of them.

A complete contrast from my previous read, which in turn was a complete contrast from the one before, and a complete contrast to the next on the pile, which is a good thing – variety being the spice of life I understand. I haven’t read or seen Wicked either so I had no preconceived ideas about this book.

It was an interesting delve into the benefits and drawbacks of beauty. In a world that is image conscious to the point of obsessive it is a very relevant read. That beauty has more than enough disadvantages I have never doubted, I mean the maintenance for one thing. One of major bonuses of not being beautiful is that you can just get on with life and not have to worry about leaving the house with a tousled hairdo or rumpled face. Once I had bought a hat I stopped having to brush my hair in the morning before going to work in the winter which gives me a few more minutes in bed, reading. But I am digressing from the story. But then everyone knows the story of Cinderella and the outcomes are much the same in this re-telling so I don’t need to elaborate on that. What is engagingly readable about it are the descriptive little flourishes which have energy and spirit and colour. It’s a zesty read.

I have seen the trailers of course for Paris Hilton’s British Best Friend and hand strayed to the bucket, obviously, so when I found myself watching an episode of this tale of everyday folk no one would have been more surprised than me. In my defence I had just come in from knocking down a wall so I was not at full strength and in my weakness unable to take complete control of the remote.

I watched in awe, repulsed, and yet captivated by this parade of all that is wrong with the world. Excessive riches, greed, self-absorption, empty headed thoughtlessness and that awful, awful scratchy plastic American accent that emanates from the wannabe youth of today. ‘Owh, it’s lake rilly, todally, fab , she’s so ossum’ hands windmilly, eyes fluttering fake lashes into a frenzy. It’s one of the things these wannabe celebs can’t stand of course, fake, they hate fakes. It clearly hasn’t been pointed out to them that they are all fakes. I mean who are we kidding here, these girls and boy don’t want to be Paris’s best friend they want to be celebs themselves, its all fake.

The ages of these delightful young people flashes up on the screen and I think, oh my God, these are kids my daughter’s age. They must have proud parents. Although, to be honest they all seem to be very animated and lively and all quite endearing and charming in their own way, unlike the prize herself of course. Of all those appearing on the screen the least animated, least engaging, least inspiring is Paris herself. A vacuous, personality free void, with a voice so monotonous that if she commands the screen for more than a minute there is a real danger that people will drift off, the settee or to sleep.

As one wannabe flounced off the show (not wearing adequate chest supporting garments) said, ‘I’m 27 I know when people are being fake’ I thought yeah you’re 27, surely adult enough to aim a little higher, Britain’s Got No Talent perhaps or Monkeys Do The Smartest Things.

I don’t think I have a strong enough constitution to sit through it again but I’m sure it will all end in tears….again.