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Author: Jackie Jillings

Don’t cry in your mask

This seems to be the second in what could become a series of ‘What not to do in your mask’.*

In this case, it was prompted by an unhappy visit to the vet with one of my two ageing cats. She’s been getting thinner and more withdrawn, and she’d started leaving us daily pools of vomit on the kitchen floor. I steeled myself to do something about it.  

Due to Coronavirus measures at the vet surgery, we have to remain outside in the tiny car-park and notify the receptionist of our arrival, then go round to the busy road at the front of the building and wait there at the appointed time with our animal. The vet takes the basket and its occupant indoors (we can’t manage to squeeze into the basket so we remain outside watching the traffic), and then returns to explain what she’s found and what we could or should do.

After the second consultation, there was a conclusion. Palliative care only. I was on my own outside this time and the vet took me just around the corner, to a pavement a little away from the worst of the traffic noise, to tell me and to discuss how we can look after our lovely cat until the end.

How bizarre it seemed. Trying to hold it together, two metres apart, both wearing masks so our voices needed to be slightly raised despite wanting to be gentle about all this. My fabric mask was soaked from the top and the inside by the end of it. I suppose I was aware that some of my worse grimacing was at least partially hidden throughout. Of course, the resulting nasal congestion made it almost impossible to breathe whilst the soggy mask remained in place, but it had to stay put until the vet had retrieved the cat in her basket from inside the surgery and I had wobbled back with her to the car-park. 

A few minutes to sit and ponder, bare-faced at last. At least the breathing was easier, and I could remove the residual snot from my face.

Then to realise that the car-park really is very small, I had parked forwards in the only remaining space and no-one had yet moved (where the hell were all these people? I had been the only visible ‘patient’) leaving me no easy way to get out.

Days later, I am still hugely impressed that I managed to manoeuvre my now seemingly pointlessly large car, and eventually reverse through the high-gate-posted entrance/exit – all whilst still gently weeping. I suppose it gave me some mental focus, a type of distraction therapy.

I hope they get some fun from watching on the CCTV. It is perhaps therapy for the poor vets as they try and clean up their own masks too.

*Previous What not to do in a mask –  Don’t run in your mask 

Dentist and the dump

This second lockdown is so tedious. We have arguments about what actual day of the week it is!

This week’s excitement for this household (apart from an illicit vegetable pasty on top of a Surrey hill which I’m completely sure was ‘essential’), was ‘Dentist visit’ – on consecutive days for our respective appointments. We have different dentists, with different Covid protocols, so that made for some interesting swapping of stories (not really, but hey, it is at least SOMETHING to talk about apart from whether it’s Tuesday or Wednesday today*).

Annoyingly, Mr J also booked a trip to the local refuse centre at the same time as my dentist appointment – so I could not go with him. How desperate does one have to be to be upset at the lack of such a thrilling experience? 

Ah well. At least we still have 7 episodes of The Crown, Season 4 to watch. 

*or even Thursday!!!

Titting about

I thought I was safe from my stupid public weeping when the weather grew a little warmer this last few days and the chill breeze temporarily relaxed. A cheek less damp – an eye less brimming.

My confidence was ill-placed however. Rather than seasonal gusting, it was some excellent Titting About that caused me to veer helplessly off the footpath in the Park to avoid being seen by approaching cyclists and fellow walkers. This time I wept in titting amusement rather than pain, embarrassment or eye-condition.

There’s something glorious about shared laughter*, middle-aged swearing, arguments about food choices and unfettered ranting as delivered by Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders on their Audible Podcast series happily titled Titting About. They do genuinely seem to be making each other laugh as great friends can do. Their spontaneous giggling is always infectious – probably even more so because I am of similar age and gender. I was going to say similar life experience too – but of course, there are some pretty large differences: fame, talent, wealth etc. OK, back to age and gender. 

And cauliflower has always been a divisive vegetable.

*Listening to helpless laughter is usually wonderfully uplifting – but dangerous on headphones in public. Remember this from a year ago. Some things seem not to have changed at all! I see my writing has not developed one bit. Nor, perhaps, my life. Sigh!

 

Back to my blogging roots

One of my eyes cries on its own. My right eye. In the slightest breeze or the hint of a chilly morning. 

Those are the words from the very start of this blog. It’s still true, and probably getting worse now. I find it quite amusing to see that I refer to a chilly morning in this opening. That’s proof that it was written way back when I was working, and walking two miles along the Thames to the office every weekday. Now, it would be fairly unlikely to see me venture outside very far in the morning, at least not so stupid early as I used to do.

In these Corona times, I have failed to get any treatment for my crying eye condition. (Note – Covid can be used as an excuse for anything. I’m pretty sure I was not getting round to sorting this out regardless of world pandemic status.)

So, now the cold air has returned, I am quite definitely back to right-eye leaking at the slightest breath of wind. And not just when I have been violated with a speculum. Or taken by surprise by Andrew Scott and his whispering Shylock. (You need to read all my blog posts to understand me sometimes. Although in fairness I often repeat myself so it’s possible to muddle through sometimes…)

Should I worry that I’ve not really moved on in the past few years? Or take comfort from my acceptance of, and enduring ability to laugh at, myself?

I’ll go with the latter. Too much else to worry about right now.

Now… where’s that hanky?

 

 

Lockdown 2.0

It’s started cold and misty outside today – a typical November morning. It has been sunny and crisp this afternoon, just as it should be.

And yet, how different it is this year from last. 

In November 2019, I was quite recently back from Croatia and still pretty pleased with myself for having quit my job. My seasonal annoyance at the early onset of Christmas was tempered by the knowledge that I had plenty of time to ignore the endless retail plugging of all things festive by doing other things. Although I didn’t know it at the time, I would in fact embrace the Christmas spirit in my next expedition, to a German Christmas market in Hamburg in early December 2019. Fond memories.

There will be none of this gallivanting in November 2020. We’ve managed a trip to Wisley (Royal Horticultural Society garden nearby) to see foliage last week, and I was outdoors in beautiful sunshine yesterday for a socially-distanced car-park chat by the river in Walton (as part of a lockdown project in fact. More of this another day perhaps.) But otherwise, there is no prospect of travelling anywhere remotely exotic or exciting. I have a trip to the dentist scheduled – I had rather hoped they would be closed, but not so apparently.

It is not so much the deprivation, or the lack of freedom to go to theatres or shops or meet people. I’m lucky in that respect and it is no real hardship to me.

It is the not knowing what’s going to happen longer term. And the worrying about the younger generation and friends/family who may not be as fortunate as me. The economy etc. Things I can do very little about.

However … it was glorious in Richmond Park this afternoon. So good that I had to stop French and Saunders Titting About* for a bit so I could take a few snaps and properly appreciate it all.

 

*podcast free on Audible. Highly recommend.

Another ridiculous song

It is now becoming a habit for me to write, and then perform, a daft song as my contribution to a monthly virtual pub session with my folk choir. 

I am unsure exactly why I do it. It began because I am no good at choosing material for this event. When the pub sessions were actually held in the pub, instead of on Zoom, I tried the occasional sea-shanty (courtesy of my husband’s very old record collection as resource) and then wrote – in a gentle jokey format – a celebration of my first year with the choir. This went down well – and has shown me that it can be quite enjoyable to create a daft song.

Now the virtual sessions are given a theme. This month it was supposed to be Hallowe’en and all things spooky. Then people added a war theme because of the proximity to Remembrance Sunday (which we won’t really be able to experience in the usual community way). This seemed to result in a combination of ghostly or war-related offerings which, whilst well-delivered as always, gave an overall gloom to the proceedings in my view. Not sure my fellow singers agreed though.

As usual, I lowered the tone with my Pumpkin song. Rather than a list of lyricist/composer/most famous band or recording artist/performance for most of the other songs – which they mostly seem to recognise and I don’t – my song prompted questions such as ‘How long did it take to write that?’. To which the answer was embarrassedly – ‘I had an idea in the shower a week ago and wrote the first couple of lines, then I had to finish all the rest of it this morning’.  

Also as usual, I can only do anything when completely up against it. To be completely honest, it wasn’t finished until mid-afternoon, but I’d had to send in a title before lunch time so from that moment on I had no choice. 

Of course, I could have cried off completely (I did that last month, but I was pretty low that week) but I know I need to press on somehow or I will end up completely useless.

I suppose it keeps me out of mischief, as my father would have said.

And talking of my father, he used to write songs as well and had some of his performed by his amateur drama group to great acclaim, so I suppose I’m just following in his footsteps somehow.

Smear

Two full days later I think I can write this down now.

Thursday – GP practice – visit the nurse for the dreaded 5-yearly test I am now supposed to call NHS cervical screening. They don’t use the word ‘smear’ any more apparently. Has there been a smear campaign against it perhaps? (Sorry.)

Corona times mean I have to ring the intercom at the front door and am then directed to a side entrance where I am instructed to wait at a different door where the nurse will come to collect me. It’s outside but under cover. There are no seats. I’m basically alone in the bike-and-pram-shelter to ponder what happens next.

Ten minutes later she opens the door and sticks a thermometer thingy in my ear. I pass. Dammit.

The next ten minutes are a blur, but I do recall some friendly chit-chat, some disrobing, more chit-chat, some searing pain, some screaming, a request to ball my fists and stick them under the small of my back (which meant removing my left hand which was inadvertently clamped over my masked mouth in a vain attempt to stifle the screams), further pain, an announcement that all was done, some re-clothing (hopefully in some semblance of presentability), more chit-chat and a shuffling out of the side door.

I cry – proper crying – all the way home. Keep my mask on and it starts to rain. Don’t think anyone notices the state of me.

Why is this so bloody awful? Every time. (Although I had persuaded myself that last time had been better – I think I must have muddled that up with some other undignified experience where I had better scream-control.)

Look on the bright side. At least I didn’t faint.

And on balance, of course testing is better than the possible alternative…

Apparently I will be called for one more of these before I am deemed too old to bother. Can’t wait.

 

I am twice undone

A strange day. Twice fearful of discovery in moments undone.

Firstly, on my walk to Sainsbury’s, I am instantly and unexpectedly reduced to tears by the ending of a BBC Radio 3 version of The Merchant of Venice on Sounds – Andrew Scott’s Shylock suddenly whispering words from the Creed in my ear-pods.

Those familiar words, unexpectedly and so movingly added. Surely this was not in the play when I studied it at school? I had been enjoying the fact I could remember most of the well-known quotes earlier in the production – just 43 years after learning them. Not bad I thought.

Horribly moving, though beautiful too. I have re-listened in the privacy of my own home, partly because I wanted to be sure I had not made it up once I had checked the script did not contain this. I had actually not enjoyed some of the updating included in this particular version – sound effects of coffee-shops and office buildings from 2008 which I didn’t really think added anything (but who am I to say?)

So anyway, I was unexpectedly weeping, on an urban street where I might bump into anyone. Weirdly, I was passing by the house of a fellow churchgoer from when our sons were both choristers. For six years, we together endured the vicar’s Sunday evening cautionary sermons, regularly plunging us into pre-Monday gloom, but that period – coupled with glorious earlier times in my college chapel when I tried harder to believe in it all – has left me with some comfort from the ritual and words of the old-style church services. So, it was a shock to be reminded in such an intimate way on the way to the shops.

Fortunately, I think my undoing in this way went unobserved and the tears were under control before I arrived at Sainsburys.

Later, back at home and fully recovered – I was up a step-ladder, both hands occupied with brush and paint. To my horror I realised that my painting trousers were revealing, through the un-curtained window, rather more of my backside than is desirable these days. No doubt because the more desirable part has melted away over these midlife years and no longer holds up my jeans.

There was no immediate remedy until I had finished my task. Lord knows whether any of the neighbours was unfortunate enough to witness this particular undoing.

Can I avoid repeating such embarrassing events?

Well, I can avoid mooning at the world out of the bedroom window by the use of a sensible belt. I have already adopted this precaution for today’s painting.

I’m not sure I’m ready to renounce all Andrew Scott material though!

Floor!

And before I knew it, I had a beautiful sanded bedroom floor!

From my style meeting on Wednesday morning, to a completed job by the end of Saturday afternoon. Sometimes miracles do happen.

All credit to the flooring company (BT Flooring) that offered an almost immediate booking and cheerfully spent a Saturday in our house sorting it all out for us.

Now I’m exploring the delights of creating a Wish List on the John Lewis website for all the other bits and pieces. Just the small issue of finishing all the paintwork now – and being super careful not to spoil the gorgeous floor in the process. Dustsheets to the ready.

Oh, and the ceiling in the room below is now hanging by a thread – with large chunks fallen down as I had rather expected with all the banging and shaking above – so I think we’ll have to tackle that room next. 

 

I’ve got style, at last

After agonising for weeks, and painting for days, I had reached something of an impasse in my redecoration attempt. I have finally banished the lilac walls under multiple layers of fresh white/grey paint (called some fancy name which currently escapes me without venturing back into the room where the nearly empty paint-pot sits – and I’m NOT going in there today), but I realised I still have no idea what to do with the floor or the window covering.

I consulted the previous occupant of the room (my daughter) but of course it is not really her choice or decision. Nice to have an opinion though, and that helped.

A discussion with Mr J ensued – not terribly helpful but I guess he tried. Anyway, I miraculously discovered that John Lewis do a free service offering style advice for home redecoration projects. Not something I would ever have noticed before I suppose. Once I had established that this would not tie me to anything at all, and that appointments were available almost immediately, I quickly booked myself in.

Yesterday, trudging through the rain into town, I wondered whether this was worth the effort, but in fact despite my damp feet and having to wear a mask at all times, it was glorious. I now know exactly what to do! It just takes a friendly person with a reasonably authoritative air to listen to me a bit (to judge which ludicrous ideas not to suggest to me too soon I suppose) and then come up with a few little suggestions and an offer to send samples and pictures. 

On returning home, I swiftly had Mr J on his knees sanding a corner of the floorboards. This established that it would be perfectly feasible to strip and oil these  (the floorboards, not his knees) – and that it would be infinitely better if we got someone in to do it. I have already made the request.

Funny how my lack of vision and inability to make decisions can sometimes be thwarted by an expert I’ve never met before.

She had pink hair.

Spooky message

Note to self: don’t leave windows open on my laptop!

As I started to log in to my credit card site to check my balance (after spending a small fortune on paint earlier this week – another story), I was shocked to hear a strange, rather distant and automated, voice saying ‘Welcome’.

This is not usual, and I hadn’t fully logged in anyway. 

The voice then haltingly continued – ‘One of the great things about you is that you always know when to leave’. What?

Once again, but more coherently, as though whatever robotic entity had learned already how to say this in a more human way – ‘One of the great things about you is that you always know when to leave’.

Completely bizarre and not a little unnerving, to be honest. My Mac just talking to me like that.

Then I realised. A little earlier I had been prompted to revisit an ongoing installation by the Royal Court Theatre which comes to an end later today. I had stared at their empty stage for a while then flicked to something else, leaving that Chrome window open. Clearly they make announcements from time to time.

Anyhow, I guess I’d better take the hint and not only log out of their installation (until later) but also leave my room and get on with the painting.

IMDb (In My Dreams, baby)

Just back from a three-night break in Cornwall where I completed two more stages of my everlasting South West Coast Path walk, and rounded Land’s End in the process.

I should be feeling energised and pleased with myself, but those feelings have already dissipated after returning home and I fear the next few months of sameness, shorter and colder days, decorating … and bloody CHRISTMAS! – will not be easy, despite my obviously privileged lifestyle. 

Ah well, looking back on my last blog post, perhaps I can hang my battered and jaded hopes on a glittering career in the arts.

Btw, I just idly wondered what IMDb* actually stands for. ‘In My Dreams, baby’ probably best fits the bill right now.

*obviously I can Google as well as the next person. It actually means the Internet Movie Database.

IMDb

Oh wow!

I just randomly Googled the films for which I have done supporting artist roles in the past 15 months. One of them is apparently due for release at the end of October.

And what is more, my actual name is shown in the full cast list on IMDb. I think this means I am officially an actor/artist. Beyond excited now.

Oscars next!

 

Don’t run in your mask

I had a lovely afternoon and evening yesterday. I travelled up to London on the train, alighting at Vauxhall and walking along the river, through Parliament Square and then St James’ and Green Parks to get to Piccadilly Circus where I met a couple of friends for cocktails and dinner. We were at Brasserie Zédel (and its Bar Américain beforehand) which were both fabulous.

Slight hiccup on entry – I initially failed the temperature test. There’s something about a fringe-and-mask-and-spectacles combo that these machines really don’t like. After a little face-furniture reorg, I registered an acceptable result.

Although I imagine the pandemic is causing management plenty of issues, the reduction in the number of tables made for a more spacious experience for us. We’d booked a table, but arrived in the Bar on spec. Our experience was seamless. I suppose I should expect no less, but it’s still nice when it all works out. We were collected when our table booking time arrived and we paid for everything at the end. There was even some live music, and we had excellent service (from behind the masks of course). It’s strange having to put on masks to move between the spaces, or to go to the Ladies etc. Particularly strange to see good friends attired like this for the first time, their lives affected just the same as mine in this respect, despite all our other varied experiences of lockdown which of course formed part of our chatty catch-up.

I noticed as we left that there was some live performance happening in the Crazy Coqs space too. Ah – remembering a previous visit there last year.

Trying to get an arty pic of the London Eye and the moon.

Having said my distanced goodbyes and once again avoiding the bus or tube, I walked to Waterloo Station for my return journey. I dallied on Golden Jubilee Bridge to take photographs of the moon, and finally arrived at Waterloo, marvelling at how easy it was to cross the road with the reduced traffic these days.

Once inside the station, all be-masked as per the rules, I noticed there were precisely two minutes until my next train departed. I was the wrong side of the station. I set off at a gallop, negotiating other mask-wearers careering towards me on similar missions, and miraculously made it onto the train with about 10 seconds to spare before the doors closed. Hurrah!

Then realised that I could no longer breathe.

I think by the time I reached Clapham Junction (two stops, in case you haven’t used this line endlessly for 30+ years as I have) I had just about determined that I would not, after all, pass out or die.

My Fitbit has awarded me all sorts of things for this.

Chutney or paint?

Around this time, I had intended to make many jars of tomato chutney, or possibly preserve some slow-roasted tomatoes. 

It is not to be. The huge crop of tomatoes which had been burgeoning at the bottom of the garden has all rotted. Admittedly I had tied each plant (grown lovingly from seed this year) to insufficient support rather than sourcing new canes, but I’m not sure that was the fatal issue. From a brief google session, I reckon some sort of parasite has got them. Fortunately, three or four plants in a different part of the garden seem to have survived and I have precisely two ripe red fruits on the kitchen windowsill from these. I think we might just eat these fresh.

So, I have been forced to rethink my domestic plans. With little prospect of escape to anywhere exotic for the next six months, I have decided that there is no choice other than to embark on the redecoration project that we have been collectively putting off for several years now. 

Every room needs something done. Most of it is beyond our skills, especially my own. However, there are two bedrooms – one of which I use as my office – which I reckon I can tackle without too much help. So, in order to force the issue, last week I stripped one of these of most of its furniture, removed everything that was stuck to its walls, washed them down and tried several tester pots of paint in random patches. It can’t just sit like that for another season now, because my actions also mean that the other bedrooms have each acquired surplus crap as a result, and thus we need to rectify this at least before Christmas, in case we are able to have guests over the festive season. Ideally I would have completed my office revamp by then too.

I’ve filled several plaster cracks, perching at times at the top of our old step-ladder.I still haven’t decided what colour to use, nor what kind of floor-covering or curtain vs blind. I’m frantically doing all sorts of other things in the meantime to put off these difficult decisions. I have been told (by my daughter, whose room it previously was) that I am not allowed to paint it Magnolia. I had no intention of using Magnolia, but now every colour I’ve slapped up to test seems to be remarkably similar.

Will the enforced re-isolation render me sufficiently bored to summon up enough get-up-and-go? And will that be soon enough?

We will see. 

(Tried to work in some word-play using ‘relish’ – “I don’t relish the thought of all those paint-spattered hours” vs “no tomato relish for me” – but somehow my creative energies remain below par. Tomato relish definitely off this year though. Oh, it’s the thought that counts!)

Who’s that knocking at my door?

Two weird doorstep encounters this week:

11.15pm Tuesday – loud knock at front door. We’re watching TV. My thoughts immediately turn disaster-wards – family accidents, distressed neighbours, passing drunks? But no – we open the door to find a Tesco crate in the porch. The delivery driver is back at his van collecting the next one. We rarely shop at Tesco and have been unable to secure any supermarket’s delivery spots this year, so this was more than a surprise, especially given the time of night. In fact, it was for an address more than a mile away – same house number, similar (but not the same) road name and completely different postcode. The driver seemed singularly unimpressed with us!

2pm Wednesday – another loud knock at the door (we do have a sign which asks people to knock LOUDLY because our bell doesn’t work – why don’t we fix the bell? Hmm.) This time I am braver, and hope it’s the early delivery of something I’ve ordered. But no – the cheery bloke with a face visor announces that he’s from Britain’s Got Talent and wonders whether we have anyone in our house who might be interested. I excitedly respond that, yes, several people might indeed be up for this. He beams even further, pleasantly startled perhaps – and points to the accreditation badge around his neck. Of course, I can’t exactly read what it says, but sadly he has to admit that he is, in fact, from one of those organisations that suggests you change your household energy provider. I express sincere disappointment – as does my other half who has overheard from upstairs and come down to investigate further. Once we have confirmed that we are entirely happy with our existing energy package, the chap gamely returns to his original theme and asks what talents we could have offered. Myriad talents of course, but drumming was first mentioned. We could go on… He apologises for the disappointment, but we part on excellent terms. If only we had more of this – I truly hope he got some ticks in his performance box or even a Golden Buzzer.

 

Lethargy

This late burst of sunny weather should be uplifting but somehow has not sparked enthusiasm in me. Perhaps it’s all the doom and gloom of rising infection numbers again. Or maybe it’s a combination of the following:

  • The fact that I’ve booked a dinner with two friends in London for next week and have no expectation of it actually taking place.
  • The fact that a different and larger group last week failed to reduce our numbers in a satisfactory way to meet up in a six-some, after the ‘rule of six’ came in, and our booked restaurant cancelled the two adjacent tables of four. Quite right of course, but our previous two quarterly meet-ups had been impossible due to lockdown, so we had been keen to go ahead this time. Somehow collective exhaustion won the day, despite a couple of very keen proponents.
  • The fear that my mental faculties are declining yet further – I can’t seem to fathom how to rationalise my Ancestry.com family tree. My 84 year old aunt has been asking me if I can prove once and for all whether we are somehow related to Sir Christopher Wren. I’m damned if I know. I get back to a branch of a Wren family and then the records go completely haywire. I’ve tried writing it down rather than using the online tree because it’s so big and complicated now, but I can’t remember from one minute to the next which person I’m actually researching. I discover wonderful things, only to realise 5 minutes later that I already knew that!
  • The ongoing failure to decorate the house. (Some progress has been made though – I’ve emptied my daughter’s old bedroom of clutter and most furniture, and purchased some paint tester pots. Sits back in exhaustion…)
  • The frustration that I’ve still not managed to write either of the interesting articles I had planned to do. No doubt they will be way past their read-by date by the time I get round to it.
  • The inability to remember my occasional bursts of inspiration – I definitely had a great idea for a short and pithy blog post earlier today but it completely escapes me now.
  • The endless f***ing headaches!

But – only a week ago I was energised and happy as a result (probably) of my brief trip away to the Essex boating world. Aha, so I need to go somewhere else now. A little trip would do the trick – if only I could be bothered to sort it out. Clearly such gallivanting would sort out ALL the above issues… hmm.

 

Such a lightweight

Someone close to me recently began describing a health problem she is having – basically, what appeared to be a cosmetic issue with a bulbous vein in her leg, endured for many years by covering up, has turned out to be extremely serious and in need of immediate and unpleasant treatment. 

Fortunately our conversation was on the phone: I ended up lying on my office floor desperately hoping to retain consciousness at least until she had hung up. So much for supportive behaviour. Guess who won’t be volunteering to go and hold her hand next week?

I hate this about myself. 

Getting all technical

Today marks one week since I started using a new Fitbit. I now have a Charge 4 which has replaced my old Alta HR. This one is less attractive I feel – rather larger and blacker – but I am able to configure it with an easily readable clock face which also displays key data of my choosing (albeit absolutely minuscule, but just about visible through my varifocals).

I realise that I am a complete nerd with my stats, so I am watching carefully to see what has changed – if anything – by a) using the new device instead of the old one and b) switching it to my left wrist. I always wore the Alta on my right wrist because when I originally bought it, I still wore a nice watch on my left. I am ambidextrous so  although I fessed up to the Alta being on my dominant wrist (I write with my right hand), and have now told the App that I am wearing the Charge 4 on my non-dominant hand, I don’t expect to see much difference. The main ‘over-counts’ in the past were peeling potatoes and hair-brushing, and frankly I don’t do enormous amounts of either. We wait to see if any exciting stats come out of my increased focus over the next months.

Given that I have spent the past week or so eating out more and scoffing various birthday gifts of fudge/choc/marzipan etc, I am targeting a much higher daily calorie count in the coming weeks to compensate, so it’s nice to have a new toy to play with for added motivation.

As it happens, I am also in full-on technical mode today, having spent a random couple of hours successfully (I think) working out how to add a Follow button to this website. I have long wondered why it didn’t magically have one (my travel blog seemed to come equipped with one without any assistance from me – see here if you want to read that one – rather quiet since lockdown of course), but it seems because I use a website for onecryingeye rather than a simple blog and chose a different host, there was rather more for me to do to make it happen. But I did, and I am now feeling inordinately smug.

And hoping that now I will garner enormous numbers of followers. That’s just asking for trouble, and disappointment, but hey. Can’t just write for myself forever can I?

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