Tuesday, 25 April 2017

Memory lane in the loft


 My son J and memory lane were made for each other. Home for the night, he decided to explore the loft (he's told me not to go up there  as there's no ladder). Here he is (or here are his feet). He's reading an old uni newspaper. That's about all I saw of him yesterday (his feet; not the newspaper). He went through his stuff, but sadly left most of it behind. He has a lovely new house, and clutter wouldn't look good. He also has a wife, who probably doesn't want it any more than we do.

That's all.

Thursday, 20 April 2017

Pinky and Washing Instrutions share a good read


As you can see, they can't put it down. Basic Theology for Fallen Women in paperback. They couldn't decide who should have it first, so they're having to share it. Pinky likes the story, apart from the sexy bits (sex is a sore point with Pinky, because he can't...well, you know. Sour grapes and all that). Washing Instructions, who is a bit woolly-headed (well,  look at him), likes the nice shiny cover and the new cover illustration.

There's a new Kindle edition, too. Only £2.41. Just the price of a pint of beer, and that's without the pork scratchings. And it lasts much longer...

Monday, 3 April 2017

The art of collecting clutter

The market for books on uncluttering your home is already flooded. I had one once, and a close friend has just sent me another. There's an article about a Japanese de-clutterer in today's Times (it's apparently the in thing in Japan). But I'm beginning to wonder whether it's really such a bad thing, hoarding clutter. I have a love-hate relationship with mine, and lack the determination to reduce it, because it's easier to love (keep) clutter than to hate (get rid of it).

A random (ie the nearest) drawer yields - among other things - the following:
An old mobile ( no drawer should be without one of these),
String (ditto).
A rather grubby half used candle.
A packet of ibuprofen; probably out of date and only two tablets left.
A very ancient first aid kit in a tin, inherited I think from my in-laws, and practically empty.
(And these are the tip of the iceberg.)

I looked at these things, and then put them back. Why? Because I have a certain fondness for their familiar randomness, and because I can't be bothered to sort them out and put them all in the Right Place (largely, the bin).

How do you feel about clutter? (I'd particularly like to hear from people who are attached to theirs, as that will make me feel better.)

Sunday, 19 March 2017

Introducing Pinky and Washing Instructions


Meet Pinky and Washing Instructions. They were the first Christmas presents my youngest son ever had (he was ten days old), and they languish here, sometimes cuddled by grandchildren but mostly ignored. I thought they deserved a post to cheer them up (Washing Instructions is particularly grumpy. You only have to look at his face).

Pinky is so-called because that's what's on his label. The same goes for Washing Instructions. The names stuck, as is the way with names. I think Washing Instructions did have a bath once, a long time ago. He's probably due another. So is Pinky.

That's all really.  It's not that I haven't got enough to do; it's just that I don't feel like doing it.

Sunday, 5 March 2017

Soggy bottoms, and other stories

A friend and I were discussing culinary disasters, and she thought a book of them would be a good idea. I'm not so sure about the book, but  thought the above would be quite a good title.

If you've nothing better to do, or the writing has ground to a halt, do post a culinary disaster of your own as a comment. I'd love to know I'm not alone.

As for mine, I'll spare you the stuffed breast of lamb, which still makes me shudder after all these years, and the thrice baked lemon meringue pie, but here is the fresh fruit jelly (which may have had a mention in the past, but no matter. At least it serves as a warning).

It looked so beautiful in the photo, the fresh fruits shinning like jewels in their flawless casing of fruit juice jelly. Easy, I thought. What could possibly go wrong? Well, I started off well enough, but I should have remembered that when giving a dinner party, never, ever make something that has to be Turned Out. Thus, when it came to that moment, I upended my jelly very carefully onto a serving place, where it sat uncertainly, quivering slightly (I was quivering too, by this stage). Then slowly slowly, quiveringly, it sank to its knees and keeled over in an unsightly pile of....well, jelly. I had to scoop its remains into a serving dish. Not the same at all.

Now, over to you.

Thursday, 23 February 2017

How long are you going to live?

There's a delightful new test doing the rounds which you can try to get the answer. This is what you do:

Cross your legs, while standing.
Sit down on the floor without touching anything at all, legs still crossed.
Rise again, without touching anything (including the floor).

That's it.  Deduct a point out of ten every time you wobble or reach out to touch anything. Apparently 0-3 points and you're in trouble. You can find this on YouTube, and see an athletic young man smilingly sinking, then rising again like Venus from the foam. I suspect he's been practising.

Gentle readers, I tried this. I wobbled, I touched everything in sight, and ended up more or less like an upturned beetle, limbs waving helplessly. According to this test, I'm already dead. I suspect that all over the country, there are other poor souls similarly placed, floundering helplessly on a thousand bedroom floors before trotting off to put their affairs in order.

Do try it and let me know how you get on. 

Sunday, 12 February 2017

An anniversary

Twenty-five years ago today, my husband died. We have marked it by sending flowers to his grave (sadly, too far for us to travel), and by thinking about him.

One of the many hard things about losing a partner is that there is only one of you left to hold all those memories that were once shared. Here, just for him, are just a few of the things I remember:

The way you wooed me with a heart-shaped Valentine arrangement of fresh snowdrops, sent through the post.
How soon afterwards we spent Easter in the Yorkshire Dales, and you wrote me a poem afterwards.
How we married just five months to the day after our first date, which shocked my poor grandmother.
Our 2000 mile honeymoon round Europe in your leaky MG.
The hours we spent gazing in sheer astonishment at our first baby, because we simply couldn't believe we had produced this perfect, home-made human being.
The way you put up with my moods.
That catastrophic elderflower wine (what was that dark cloud that formed in the middle of the jar? In the end, we had to mix it with lemonade to make it drinkable).
The way I put up with your insatiable need to create things, from an observatory (which took months and even nights to complete) to a completely new school (which took years, and which is now flourishing).
Your passion for teashops and curries (not necessarily together).
And perhaps most of all, your utter kindness and generosity.

Thank you. For everything.