Collapsing Christmas Cake

This morning, as other family members hunkered over their Weetabix, I turned a large bowl of brandy soaked fruit into a Christmas cake and put it warily into the oven. The only other time I have tried this recipe, as dictated by the diva of domesticity herself, I found myself stuffing the sprawled contents of a supposedly cooked and cooled cake back into the tin and introducing the concept of a twice baked fruit-cake to the family. That year it resembled a ready-made alpine scene and Father Christmas slid rather gracefully into a ravine that no amount of icing would fill!

Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's Birth Chutney

This is not its technical title; the one listed in The River Cottage Year is for 'Glutney', a word which instantly appeals and the recipe doesn't disappoint - bung in all the excess garden fruit and veg is the basic premise.

At eleven o'clock last night I ladled quantities of this year's brew into recycled and scrubbed jars ready to wait out the winter months in a store cupboard before consuming. The oversized marrows, endless small tomatoes, carpets of apples and the odd pumpkin have been beckoning for some time, but it was the birth of a nephew that prompted me to get out the chopping board and pan. A little over three years ago his older brother was born on the day that I happened to make a batch of chilli jam - the two were unwittingly linked - and a jar of the vintage chilli was recently discovered lurking with intent on the back of a shelf, (no comments about housekeeping, thanks!). When the newborn's eldest sibling, a sister, was born nearly six years ago her maternal grandparents and I descended within 24 hours bearing gifts of food of all temptation. A long way from home and on a fleeting visit, my first impulse had been to raid the deli counter of the local supermarket and, along with a bottle of the fizzy stuff, deliver it to the proud parents in celebration.

This is not a need I felt immediately after the birth of my own offspring - physical exhaustion is a pretty good preventive - and it has not been a pre-planned or even forethought option with assorted nieces and nephews over the years, rather a natural reaction and the connection only made this morning as I wrote labels over the breakfast cereal. Birth, a time to celebrate, to give thanks, and in this house it seems to be done with food!

Techno-fit

Is it only me, or has the art of exercising been transported too far into the twenty-first century?
The gym which I half-heartedly attend has recently availed itself of an entirely new set of equipment; most of which looks as though it is designed to test the very latest robots.

Being bewildered whilst engaging with pedals and levers is probably not a good idea so I accepted the offer of help from a 'trainer'. She was a) far younger than me, b) clearly far fitter but c) so caked in make-up that I wondered if it was possible for her to exhibit signs of perspiration! With all the enthusiasm of youth and that training courses had provided her with, she exhibited great patience when demonstrating the purpose, possibilities and potential benefits of each machine. Quite how I am going to remember not to stride too far on one in case it transfers into 'run' mode from 'step', I have no idea; probably only by falling off the darned thing as pedals lunge forwards.

The capabilities of each machine to improve my stamina, fitness, mobility, or whatever it is I think I'm going to the gym for, is nothing when compared to the entertainment that I can be treated to whilst I am there. Gone, dear reader, are the days of stuffing a walkman in a pocket and jogging slowly round the block.

Receipts and Route planners

In honour of a forthcoming family wedding a couple of weeks ago, I gave my car it's annual clearout. Armed with plastic bags for rubbish I began in the boot and worked my way forward. It soon became clear that I must have forgotten to conduct the 2012 visitation.

Squirrelled away in pockets, car doors and under seats I found: clumps of mud from football and cricket pitches alike, five plastic bottles, some with water, some without; a bag's worth of used tissues, biros in black, red, blue; pencils, some with lead in them; three books - one of them kept by me at the front of the car in case of getting stuck in a jam or waiting for a late coach back from a match, I hate having nothing to read - two rancid sticks of lipsalve; about £4.20 in loose change; sweet and chocolate wrappers; three socks - none matching - one t-shirt; a dozen or so used parking meter tickets; one £2 win scratchcard which I know for a fact has been there since we've had the car; a ski-lift pass, (haven't been for three years); plastic bags in case the dogs get taken unawares on walks; dog biscuits; a glasses-cord, (same ski trip); one pair of secateurs; one mascara, no longer useable; one hundred and one receipts and route planners that plotted my life over recent years.

The latter were the only things that caused me to stop for they told a tale. For some years I have driven the length and breadth of the country with our eldest for sports training and local, regional and national competitions. Each piece of paper (I refuse to get a tom-tom, I do not need someone to tell me that I've just missed a turn and I should take the next right when they don't even have eyes on the road), reminded me of competitions in obscure welsh towns, hard-to-find midlands industrial estates or better known northern cities; of hockey matches in fancifully named west country locations and of hours upon hours spent supporting and encouraging, cheering and cheering up, becoming an amateur expert on the niceties of the javelin throw, high-jump run-up or baton passing in the 4 x 100 metres (could tell the GB team a thing or two); of matches in horizontal rain that turned to sleet, or shouting anxiously as a hockey ball flew too close to the offspring's face. Years of 'phone calls home talking my other children through the niceties of preparing a meal, of knowing the best place to buy fuel when lost in the Brecon Beacons, of pulling into service stations for the obligatory energy giving chocolate and of wondering how much longer the car would hold up.

I stuffed my maps to stadiums and sports clubs into the bag with a sigh - but at least the car might last until the new year!

Stones Slaughter - Saturday

As many who were unable to get hold of a ticket for Glastonbury did, I watched the Rolling Stones semi-live on television on Saturday evening. Filter lenses and light of the night did their best to mask the signs of decades of living it up; and whilst Jagger can still jiggle like a teen, others seemed ready-embalmed and held in situ by virtue of aching limbs. They were great, they always are, can still hold a crowd; and how many of the current 'yoof' bands will be able to say that in sixty years time?

But they held my attention for too long. Any thoughts of shutting up my happy hens for the night faded as the Stones sauntered on and the wine level in my glass dropped.

We've lost two hens recently; one through ill health, the other drowned having tried breast-stroke in the tub of water left out for livestock. Of the remaining six, we favoured Ginger, a feisty bantam belonging to our eldest whose namesake was the star of the Wallace and Gromit studio's The Chicken Run. Like the Chicken Run's Ginger, ours was hell-bent on escape at first, her diminuitive size enabling her to slip through fences whilst others watched enviously, (you try pointing out to chickens that they have plenty of space, trees to provide shade, long grass to forage in, dust baths, nesting boxes, food and water in plentiful supply - if there's a way out, they'll take it!) Over the years she showed her true colours as the original Tiger Mother; a fierce guardian of chicks who soon grew bigger than she - only Ginger was capable of seeing off the Sisters of Doom, Smokey and Feathers, who sought to eat any chicks that hatched in their kingdom, other mothers were bullied out of the way, sacrificing their little ones in the process - it's a dog-eat-dog world in the hen coop.

Eldest Son was dispatched to feed the fowl on Sunday morning and returned quietly to tell his mother that there would be no egg collecting that day. Foxy Loxy had visited in the night and in some sort of peverse form of justice, carried off Smokey and Feathers - evidence of their struggle found in piles of white and grey feathers in the field. Another hen had wounds to her neck and our three beloved bantams had all died of fright, Ginger in the nesting box of which she was so fond.  We miss the clucking every time we walk into the garden, and Ginger's flight up to the food bin to get her bantam-sized share before the others.

Were the Stones good on Saturday? Yes - but were they worth my flock of fowl - I think not.

We shall be interviewing replacement applicants for the coop in coming weeks; only hens with  Ginger's attributes need apply!

Pondering at the petrol station

In common with a former work colleague, I share a dislike of petrol stations. It's not that they don't provide a vital service; simply that I'd rather be somewhere other than idlling in a queue waiting for the car in front to inch forwards, before it gets to my turn to stand in the arctic wind tunnel that is an obligatory design feature of all forecourts, and fill up.

A local supermarket usually has cheaper fuel than elsewhere, something that hasn't escaped the notice of a large proportion of the local electorate. To buy fuel there means to feel smug that you've saved a few quid, at the expense of your temper which may have been frayed by the inordinately long time it has taken to get to the pump.

People watching has become my sanity-restoring saviour. Protected by the glass windows of their vehicles, drivers and passengers alike imagine themselves invisible and that open windows allow no noise to drift from the cars. Texts are sent and received, loud 'phone calls detailing either the entire itinerary for the recipient's day, the importance of a delivery being made on time, or telling so and so to go and 'fxxx' themselves are commonplace. Noses are picked,

Trafalgar Square - 4th Plinth

Groundworks are underway in the Celestial Swamp that reflect both the passage of time spent here, and preparations for the years to come.  And I am not referring to the building of a jetty nor a mooring point for a dinghy - with a recent spell of dry-ish weather and no longer fearing hitting water if we dig, the builders and their team are here to construct some heady additions to the moorland dwelling.

Former earthworks have been levelled, much to the joy of the chickens who clearly think that the stretch of flattened earth is designed solely for them as a worm farm; and what was once a grassy area overhung with pretty willow branches has become another parking space to cater for the increasing number of teens keen to show off their new found mobility by rocking up in their cars and undertaking multiple-point turns in the driveway. Now we have enough space for the latest seventeen year old to practice his reversing skills without my flinching too much at the proximity of the house, tree or me!

Our 'one big push and it'll fall down' stable has been demolished, another will replace it - a small step on the slippery slope towards a four-legged lawn-mower!

But the piece de resistance, (can't work out how to do accents on the blog), of these works is the oil tank. Out with the old metal tank rusting away quietly and in with an edifice that has a support block looking remarkably like a sacrificial altar to the god of concrete. Atop this sits an enormous green oil tank, a design of moulded green plastic worthy of a slot on Trafalgar Square's Fourth Plinth. Large enough to house a  family of six; it is ugly enough to provoke discussion and practical enough to last the anticipated tenure in the centre of London. I'm going to suggest it to Boris!

E is for exams

When Michael Gove's predecessors determined that exams would be taken from mid-May to the end of June, did they ever stop to wonder how to marry the mind of a truculent teen with the need to spend hours bending over books? In the 21st Century, this should read: staring at a screen and remembering the ancient art of putting pen to paper and making notes on information imbibed.

Our academic year ends soon, providing a welcome break over the ludicrously named 'summer months', but once in a while we're taken by surprise; the sun does shine, bees buzz and flowers nod in homage to the yellow globe in the sky purported to be giver of life - and suntans. Starved of sunshine and vitamin A for months on end, these GCSE/A/degree students long to stretch lily limbs in the light, to lie in the grass and gaze at nothing whilst listening to music, heasdphones vibrating with noise so loud that anyone within a 400 metre radius also benefits from their choice of motivational melody.

Last Lunch

After fourteen years at the post, I made our eldest their last packed lunch this morning. School finishes for A'level students late morning tomorrow and they remove, as one, to the local public house for liquid lunches that will no doubt represent the real thing for years to come!

Unsure whether to jump for joy, or shed a tear for the speed at which the fourteen years of school have sped by, I remembered the umpteen times I've made up sandwiches at break-neck speed whilst fielding, 'have you seen my socks', and 'is there any milk left' type questions. It's not necessarily the sandwiches that cause the problems - although with the eldest they can do - but what the heck else do you put in there that will fill them up and be nourishing rather than an easy 'fix'?

When we first embarked on this, back in September 1999, I began with brown bread. The four year old child soon asked to try school dinners! A few weeks of tired child later and me assuming that all children were this exhausted after a day in front of the blackboard, a kindly teaching assistant told me that my child clearly didn't like the school food and would 'pick and leave', rather than pick and mix. 

Alcohol and Coke

There were three of us on Saturday, half the squad and one we three was cricketing in far flung reaches of the county. Thinking that it might constitute a treat, I suggested to the youngest that we ordered a takeaway to coincide with the return of the cricketer and had a drink in a local pub whilst we waited. There was no enthusaistic, 'great idea, Mum, when can we go?' - although the offspring concerned was happy to record any essential tv programmes that might be missed. Rather the concern was, 'do you always have to drink wine?'

Four teens, Four candles...Fork handles

There has been no earthquake, no tidal wave of woe; we have passed under the barrier long since dreaded and, with the latest birthday, become the parents of four teens. Instead, for the first time since the youngest's birth, it rained on the appointed day and, two days later is set to bring a deluge accompanied by winds and a drop in temperature: does this herald the slow start to years of increased stomping arguments (there is such a thing, believe me), slammed doors - already replaced the back door once - assumptions that the car is their preserve and theirs only; that food will disappear at an even more alarming rate and that, naturally, the centre of the entire universe revolves around them. Them x four. 

Undoubtedly, yes!

Empty Inner Middle

Back in the Iron Age when I was pursuing an undergraduate life with the odd bit of study thrown in, I decided to take as part of my degree, a module in computer science. The Edinburgh University Geography department had a few computers, but most were the preserve of the post-grads and profs. We underlings gave seminars using overhead projectors and typed up dissertations on cranky old machines requiring WD40 to lubricate the keys.

K is for Kit

When it comes to sports kit, it is almost impossible to keep up to date with a growing family of sports-minded people. Football boots that cost more than they should are guaranteed to have been outgrown by half-way through a season; although I have to hand it to offspring#2 who finished the last few matches of last season with boots taped afresh each week to hold them together and in situ - with size 13 feet it is far from easy to find footwear to fit!

The approach to this year's cricket season was tempered with queries and suggestions such as, "Do your whites still fit? Do you know where they are? Have your feet grown (again)? Should you check any of the above." With replies assuring me that all was, "Fine, Mum," said with suitable 'go away and leave me alone' tone, I relaxed. Cricket is, after all, the preferred sport for the males of the family and I know that they're keen to begin the season.

First match was last Monday. Monday morning came the cry, "Can't find my whites and the only shirt is too small." And then before I had a chance to swing round from making up packed lunches, "Are you going out today?" Books tend not to write themselves when interrupted by ad hoc shopping trips which may well explain why I'm only half way through this re-write instead of considerably further along.

Wearing a shirt three sizes too big, the afore-mentioned child played in multiple layers designed to help keep him warm for this summer game played in decidedly temperate conditions. Other-half's missing kit was found in a plastic bag at the bottom of the stairs and older sibling's grubby kit retrieved from the bag in which it had been sitting since last August - surprised it didn't walk out of its own accord.

I buy tracksuits on a regular rotational basis, know that it can take one child up to two hours to find a pair of trainers to fit, another will be satisfied with the first pair tried. We have, somewhere, different length spikes for various athletics disciplines, at least 10 mouth guards here in assorted colours; we have weapons aplenty in the form of bats, sticks, riding crops, racquets and a javelin; pads for protection, gloves for virtually any sporting discipline, body protectors, helmets, hard hats, boots, balls ranging from in size from squash and golf to medicine balls for strength and conditioning via the greenhouse-shattering cricket balls. A catching net props up one end of the garden in the summer, a makeshift goal at other times there is a temporary badminton net and the yard becomes a cricket pitch when weather permits. And 101 socks.

Yes we have kit, but the never the right stuff at the right time!

Wisdom tooth woe

It has taken some years for my teeth to decide that it is time to be wise; something that my brain has yet to take into consideration! Yesterday was D-day for extraction of one such tooth that had decided to grow horizontally towards my molar, causing all manner of potential problems.

I'm sure there's a perfectly good reason why dentists persist in using vast metal syringes rather than the rather natty disposable ones favoured by nurses, but it does little to encourage a relaxed state of mind as something capable of knocking out a horse at ten paces looms towards your face!

I had obeyed orders and partaken of a large breakfast, but the combined effect of the numbing gel and two syringe dose of local anaesthetic, caused my throat to become numb and me to feel as though I could neither breathe nor swallow, in turn becoming grateful for the support of the dental chair as a feeling of nauseousness swept over me.

Scalpel, pick-axe and wrench took their turns, followed by a long needle and some fishing line resulting, I'm told, in a relatively 'clean' extraction. During the grinding and crunching when I wondered how long my jaw would hold out, the dentist uttered those immortal words, "You're doing well and we're nearly there." I was pinned with afore-mentioned weapons in my mouth otherwise there may have been a similar response to that given to just-out-of-college midwives who tried to reassure me during hours 20-30+ that labour and childbirth didn't really hurt at all - 'So how many children do you have?'. I'm not sure how many wisdom teeth have been pulled from my - very good and kind - dentist, but there may have been an admittance of potential pain if such treatment had been undergone.

Nearly 24hours later and I still feel as though I've gone a few rounds with a knuckle-duster wearing Mike Tyson, but I did manage a little porridge this morning and my combination of painkillers is doing something to dull the pain.

The good news - another wisdom tooth began to come through at the weekend!

Buzzing Bees

Consumption of honey in this household is high; this, combined with a desire to do our bit for the struggling UK honey bee, led to me take a ten week beekeeping course in the early months of this year.

Theory is all very well, but yesterday we were called to the local area's apiary to begin to put some of our hard earned knowledge into practice. Things I have learned:

1. There is no elegant way in which to don an all-in-one bee-suit whilst hopping on one leg with red boggy ground beneath one's feet.

2. Along with one other, I am the youngest there by at least 15 years, therefore am assumed to have the agility to complete the above task. As the sole female, my fellow beekeepers are unsure whether to offer help or stare into space!

3. I still don't like the sound of multiple insects buzzing about my face, but

4. It is neither wise nor cool to swipe haphazardly at the few honey bees who are struggling to cope with being so rudely interrupted on a Sunday afternoon! Slowly and surely is the mantra.

5. Vision behind a mesh is not good, not even when teamed with glasses which are pushed down my nose by the hat and veil. This may be a good thing, I tried not to look to see how many of the little wonders had settled on me.

6. The apiary manager may want to choose someone else to write the hive record card, my handwriting whilst leaning on thin air is even worse than usual. The next person to inspect may wonder if the queen was a no show or had laid copious combs-worth of eggs.

7. I'm hooked, after half an hour.

8. But still have a life-time's worth of knowledge to assimilate and absorb so hope the fascination lasts long enough to provide the family with a jar or two of honey!

Customer loyalty

In our post-Thatcherite days it would appear that customer loyalty counts for very little with some businesses.

As customers of a certain oil company for the past sixteen years we certainly didn't expect special treatment - indeed the repeated bargaining over prices to have them reduced from initial quotes should have warned us that we were regarded simply as a cash supply system - but a little customer care might have been nice.

Our ancient oil tank has no gauge and the top is rusting beautifully. To check on oil, I climb a step-ladder and plunge a bamboo into the depths to try and work out how many weeks or days worth we have left, it's a technical task!

Magic Mushrooms

On the front page of the Sunday paper was a headline proclaiming that, 'Magic Mushrooms could help treat people with severe depression.' How times have changed!

In the educational establishments that nurtured me through my teens, the consumption of such fungi was deemed to be an offence worthy of explusion. Tales abounded regarding the best placed neck of the woods to find such food - the school canteens weren't up to much - and the brave ventured forth to gather in the harvest. Whether real or imagined, psychedelic bubbles in the sky and floating about on heavenly clouds whilst watching morphing shapes were said to be the beneficial effects of such bounty.

One wonders whether the current crop of adventurous students will be found, broadsheet newspaper in hand, proclaiming to headteachers up and down the land that their depressive state necessitated the use of this medicinal foodtype!

C is for Clerk of Works

Filed, naturally, under W for Wife.

I'm not sure that researching and producing international conferences for tens or hundreds of executive delegates in my former life really prepared me for the role of Clerk of Works in the decidedly non-FTSE listed company that is the Celestial Swamp. It has not, however, prevented that mantle being hung over my shoulders.

On first name terms with a local builder, plumber, electrician, digger-man, fencer, oil and gas companies,farmers,

Fitness with Frills

Another senior moment this week, I'm beginning to be a little concerned at how frequent these are becoming!

In order to try and fit in a little fitness, I deposited children at home after school, mentally prepared for the evening meal and dashed out the door with a pre-packed bag for the gym; the idea being that I'd be able to fit in a little more work afterwards in the cafe that forms part of the leisure centre.

I was pleased with my organisational skills but found to my dismay that although I had packed everything else I might need, there was no gym-top or t-shirt in sight. Undeterred, I walked around to the reception desk and asked if there were any spare shirts I might be able to borrow, wash and return (I can't be the first person to forget some kit).

Nyet. Clearly not inclined to even consider this option - in spite of the fact that there are health club shirts being worn a-plenty in the building, and must be in situ to dish out to new members or those simply wishing to pretend they frequent such a facility -  the receptionist neither shifted her feet nor her gaze. Not open for discussion at all. So I returned to the changing rooms faced with the choice of making a forty minute round trip home to collect the darned thing, or soldier on.

A turquoise and black sports bra may not be your first choice to wear with a white vest with lacey frills, but let me assure you that it is now quite the thing. I did consult another before venturing out and was comforted with the words, "Well, anything goes nowadays, doesn't it?" It didn't stop me folding my arms in front of me on the long walk upstairs and then scuttling to the first machine I saw, setting the timer for three times longer than usual and then staring with unusual concentration at the small tv screen on the cross-trainer. It's the old head in the sand trick, if I don't see them, they can't possibly notice me.

Forty minutes later I was brazen in my possibilities, switching between machines and weights with abandon, but still not holding anyone's gaze. However, cometh the hour, I didn't think I could face the stretching/close proximity area so scuttled out, head held high and still feeling like a fool! I'll pack a shirt first next time.

Papal voting

Does this remind anyone else of the Tri-wizard tournament in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire?

Rather like J K Rowling's story of secret competition entry, strict age-entrance requirements, clandestine meetings and bizarre methods of communicating victory; the Vatican is currently hosting a large number of visiting dignitaries, none professing to want the job, yet all secretly wondering if they might be able to pull it off.

The Great Hall at Hogwarts has been substituted with the fabulous Sistine Chapel, for once clear of a constant babble of tourists all trying to sneak forbidden photos. The great and good and the faithful are not to learn of who voted for whom and when, yet that doesn't stop the world's media from speculating whether a Brazilian or African cardinal may become the first non-European incumbent for several centuries. Rita Skeeter and her 'quick quote'pen had no qualms when interviewing HP in a cupboard, happy to imply an unseemly willingness in his eagerness to participate.

No cup will spit out the name of the final candidates, but black smoke will issue forth from the specially constructed chimney to let us know that the cardinals are still whispering behind closed doors. With luck, the victor won't have to confront his Voldemort in order to emerge victorious and instead of witnessing death, we'll see white smoke over the Vatican before too long.

Mammogram

The NHS letter led me to believe that I was special, one of the chosen few. Still in my late-mid-forties, I wasn't aware that I was up for free mammograms, but it would appear that the age limit has been extended at either end of the spectrum and today was to be my lucky day.

Its sub-zero here and the wind chill factor makes it seem as though we've been whisked up, Dorothy-style, and plonked down somewhere on the Russian Steppes. The prospect of stripping from the waist up, therefore, did not appeal and I followed the letter's suggestion to trot along to the good ship lollipop, (mobile unit that resembles one of those 'virtual thrill-seeking rides' that parks up at any half-baked seaside town),clutching a spare cardigan to cover the shoulders whilst waiting. Actually I had more than the shoulders in mind!

Clearly invented by a man, this clamping device with a mind of its own is not designed to ensure relaxation, comfort or reassurance. On a cold day; and no chance for a cardigan, I was whisked from cubicle to screening room in an unseemly haste; my breasts were man (well, woman) handled into position and I was invited to stand this way, or that, to face that wall, then this, to relax my shoulders, my arm, lean backwards, move my hair out of the way, hold the other breast with my (deep) frozen free hand, wait a moment please, it won't be long, have the pressure increased...

It serves a purpose and a very good one, but I'm sure that a female led, and let's face it cash enhanced, NHS, would have allowed for a softer approach, both mechanical and human. Results in a fortnight!

B is for boiler

B is for boiler, and comes under other domestic duties for the homebound spouse.

Someone, somewhere, responsible for the Law of Sod dictates that whenever the weather gets truly icy, the boiler has a hissy fit. Last night working perfectly, this morning - kaput. We have oil in the tank, albeit a greatly diminished amount due to recent cold and the thermostats are trying their best to indicate to the boiler that it's time to ignite, but it's not listening.

Donning kit fit for Scott of the Antarctic at 7.15 this morning, I went to investigate; trying my one trick, the automatic re-start button, I paused for effect waiting for the familiar roar to indicate success. Not even a sputter. The boiler repair-man isn't answering the 'phone, but I've left a message and am trying not to twitch each time I think I hear a 'ting' - at least I can switch on the immersion heater to guarantee a hot bath or two later in the day.

I show little patience with the offspring when they fail to light the woodburner without a firelighter, never failing to tell them how easy it is; how I've started campfires in the middle of the jungle using plenty of puff and a single bit of dried bark retrieved from halfway up a tree, and warning of Armageddon when luxuries such as firelighters won't exist. Today, I'm on their side. I have used the best part of the Sunday paper, quantities of kindling, half a box of matches, filled my lungs with smoke and all to no effect. The winds are swirling down the chimney, blowing pretty patterns kaleidoscope style, with the ash, and that will be my excuse!

The youngest is at home today and we have both taken shelter in the same room; our one electric heater near the ailing one and me wrapped up like the michelin man. Creative writing might be a little tricky with teen-tv in the background, so I've loaded the washing machine anticipating the need for the tumble-drier in an hour or so, when I can sit near it and write!

Roll on spring...

Chauffeur

I'm not aware of making the life choice to become a semi-professional chauffeur; indeed I baulk at the definition that says such a person is employed to drive...at what point did I sign that contract? Yet it would appear that one of the chief joys of living in our sub-rural neck of the woods is that I spend more time driving out of it than living in it.

Time and Space - Water cooler moments

The reason behind the relatively recent resurgence in popularity of coffee 'bars', I was told today, is 'time and space'. They were quite the place to be in centuries gone by when the expense of the beverage meant it was imperative for anyone who was anyone - for which read any man who was any man - to be seen quaffing the stuff. And in recent years, whether indpendent of part of a chain, they have begun to take over the high street in most towns.

In a world of instant communication, long working hours, children partaking in more extra-curricula activities than ever before, sometimes juggling a second job and/or being a carer and the feeling of failure if one doesn't accomplish all of these things and  more, we will willingly pay for some time and space.

How many of us actually sits down to enjoy a cup of coffee or tea at home? I lose count of the number of cold cups I find either in the kitchen or at my desk, no time to drink, or lost in work and the hot beverage forgotten. Space, the ability to get away from the multiple chores, the pile of extra reading or report writing. If you're at home, it's there staring you in the face. Magic yourself away for half an hour and you can pretend, if you're lucky even forget, that it exists. Even mothers of young children take their job (kids) with them; they have to look after their offspring, but the washing up or the mundanity of building another duplo model is temporarily displaced.

Social media means that we should be better at communicating with our friends and family; but a line or two exchanged in print on a screen in no way compensates for the face to face experience involved in taking time and space for coffee, or tea, or whatever takes our fancy before re submerging ourselves in the all consuming humdrum of 21st century life.

For me, and many others like me, working alone and at home, time and space is an opportunity to re-connect with the outside world. These are my water-cooler moments, seldom taken but welcome when they do. In recent years I've marvelled at sculptures suspended from cafe ceilings, wondered why the person sitting  at the table diagonally opposite is so tanned, felt sorry for a line of elderly women all sitting alone - each at their own table, non communicating - laughed at waiter's jokes, overheard conversations that make me smile, want to weep, question; noted the five different Eastern European nationalities represented by the baristas and counted carrot cake as one of my five a day!

These solo trips aren't a 'jolly', an excuse not to work, they're a chance to re-charge the imaginative batteries, to seed the germ of an idea with regard to a character trait, a short story or remind me of a detail I could/should include for a minor background character. Vital; without my time and space, my well of inspiration would slowly dry.

I have no office e-mails, (thankfully), nor office politics, (even better!), but the occasional opportunity to meet for a coffee with a friend replaces this lack of banter for me and more than amply rewards the time spent away from pen and paper.

With thanks to Julie, who today told me of her time and space theory and was my water cooler updater!

Dress Code

It doesn't matter whether you're sashaying down the red carpet in Hollywood or stepping out the front door, sometimes it is possible to miss the dress code altogether. As I cleared a pile of correspondence yesterday evening, I spotted a discrete dress code guide given on an invitation to an event the other half and I attended on Saturday. Perhaps through sheer luck rather than judgement I think we managed to cover the 'Smart Casual' suggested, combining thermal underwear with smarter than usual outer garments and leaving the worn boots and ripped jackets at home!

Oscar frocks and hairdos were apparently only a hit this year if described as 'sick'.

Brit Awards

Last night's Brits were viewed by me with a mixture of confusion, delight and ridicule; the first and last doubtless an indication of my advancing years. Too many bright lights and pointless neon-lit curtains with 'stars' who could barely sing, emerging to stalk the stage in rubber-coated jackets. Ridicule and despair at the bastardisation of the wonderful work of Blondie, evocative of my youth (dark ages) all in the name of charity. I know that they're a global phenomenon, but their allure escapes not only me, but also the offspring, which I suppose is gratifying.

The highlight of the evening? An interval-advert confirming that Skyfall is now available on DVD - life is now complete! One teen told me that, should I spend over £30 in a well known supermarket on any given day, I can purchase this piece of cinematic history for a mere £10. Bearing in mind that, due to our extortionate weekly grocery bill, we're one of the families that help the staff of our local branch obtain their annual bonus, I feel that they should be rewarding me with copies gratis. Can DVDs wear thin through over-use - well I'd hate to find that due to over analysis of Daniel Craig's finer action sequences I'd be subjected to hazy pictures!

Bribery - the original art of negotiation

There was a time when a simple promise of a hug or a favourite bedtime story would persuade the offspring that the task demanded of them might at least be attempted. Cauliflower cheese swallowed with a grimace, toys picked up and thrown into a basket, walking the last 200metres back to the car rather than being carried.

As their age increases so does their wisdom,

Roman heating for chickens

The article suggested a deep litter system of poultry husbandry. As that's the modus operandi for household maintenance in the celestial swamp, it was the kind of advice I was happy to heed!

Ordinarily, we would clear out the chicken coop on a fortnightly basis, giving the happy hens some fresh sawdust and straw in which to ruffle their feathers. Originally filed under 'taking it in turns', mucking out now clearly has more ticks in one column than any other.

"The warmth of the chicken droppings," read the article, "...will help to heat the coop. Instead of rigorously clearing out the coop, cover the aforementioned droppings with further woodchippings and/or straw; thus retaining the warmth already provided." Music to my ears.

Tropical island perfume

To provide ambience, my guide, The Artists Way, tells me; I should light a candle or somehow infuse a favourite perfume into my working space. I scrabbled about this morning, wondering how I could fulfill this and found a Christmas present candle entitled 'Seychelles'. Wrong group of islands and entirely the wrong ocean, but the candle-maker's approximation of a tropical island is providing a wonderful counter-active smell to that of wet dog which usually pervades the house.

It is, however, at odds with the weather outside and my constant thought of which pudding I could make next! With my added layers, hot drinks, heated cushion and smell of the islands I have my story laid out on the floor around me; post-it notes flagging scenarios and dates, note-books and endless arrows and exlamation marks to remind myself of the next thing to research and/or to think about with regard to character development and conflict resolution, and I'm trying really hard to immerse myself in the tropical heat of the novel.

The window-cleaners arrived, dressed in michelin layers and, a new development, fluorescent jackets; dogs barking and the bash of brush on glass did nothing for my concentration. The post-man managed to enter and exit the garden without his usual welcoming committee, but not without the alarm being sounded that he was about. I have had three sales calls in one hour. Ordinarily, I wouldn't bother traipsing across the room to pick the 'phone up if I'm working, but I'm expecting a call from the damp-man, without whose words of wisdom the study may never be operable. And at the back of my mind is a constant Yo-sushi! style conveyor belt of apple crumble, rice pudding, bread and butter pudding, bakewell tart, spotted dick, sticky toffee pudding, lemon delicious; all steaming and with pints of custard and cream; kind of hard to feel the ice-cream necessitating heat that my characters are immersed in!

Toddler Tantrums

Standing behind a young mum in the local Co-op recently, I watched with sympathy as she and her mother coped with two small ones hell-bent on escape. With display units of chocolates and the open road through the automatic doors, temptation beckoned at every angle.

J is for January

and no more jumping through hoops, hopping in a sack, leaping over a fence and then crawling through a tunnel, all with a party hat on.

Christmas is over; and with it the multi-tasking joy of cramming enough cooking for a two year period into a fortnight,