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,