A regular recent fear: leave the house, get half way along the road, realise from the cold on my backside that my oldest skinny jeans have finally worn right through.
It has been getting colder and colder on recent walks, and I could see through the material when I folded them after washing, but each time I’ve had this sensation, I have persuaded myself I was catastrophising.
Today it was so cold in the spare room that I had a similar feeling, although of course without the frisson of public exposure.
Sure enough, a hole has developed. The jeans are now in the bin, to avoid forgetful fulfilling of my fearful prophecy.
By the way, these jeans used to be black. Do they not make anything to last these days?
Erm – probably now five years old and worn endlessly. But still…
It’s marmalade time of year. Before I worked so hard (actually, when I had small children and also worked four days a week – the job must have been a lot easier in those days) I enjoyed making marmalade in January when the Seville oranges were around. I was encouraged by my mother-in-law in this pursuit – I’m not sure my own mother ever bothered with preserves other than blackberry jam in September when our local hedgerows were heaving with free produce.
I hunted down the necessary quantity of Seville oranges. Annoyingly* I found them in Waitrose, all packaged (in cardboard, it’s fine) and ready to go, and cleverly teamed with preserving sugar in the display. I made four jars which should last us for months.
I couldn’t find my old preserving pan, which we probably dumped at some point when I thought I’d never get back to such time-consuming activities, so I used a cast-iron casserole dish. This was fine until the mixture caught and burned ever so slightly. This means there are tiny flecks of blackened peel in the final product even after I took out the worst bits. It doesn’t seem to have affected the taste.
The marmalade recipe required just one non-waxed lemon. I could only find a net-full of such lemons, so I had left-overs to use before they rot. I recalled a wonderful lemon pudding a friend had cooked for us last year and dug out a similar recipe. I made it yesterday – enough for 4-6 people I reckon. Has to be eaten hot and does not keep. I gave one generous portion to my husband. I ate all the rest myself – having determined that eating ONLY the pudding for supper would not exceed normal calorific quantities. I had not properly thought it through – although delicious, the amount of sugar was extraordinary. I felt sick for about an hour, then had an enormous craving for something – anything – savoury, so had eat something else after all.
So much for trying to cut down a bit.
*’Annoying’ only because of my romantic ideal of sourcing the fruit from a more ‘local’ place – in this case at best our town-centre market, which in fairness I did try first. I made greengage and plum jam using fruit from our garden last year, but we are not able to grow oranges – yet!
Today was properly winter. The kind of winter that you actually want to remember. Cold and with a heavy morning frost. An almost cloudless sky. Time for a walk – and not just one of my usual solo routes through Richmond Park, but a proper trek out as a twosome in a different location.
Four miles alongside the Wey Navigation and the Arun river (Guildford area) – perfect. Properly wrapped up against the cold and be-wellied so that we could slosh through some of the remaining floodwater when necessary, and slither around on patches of mud without fretting about cleaning our walking boots on return home before putting them away.
Nice to see later on – when I had uploaded a few pics on Facebook, as I am wont to do – that many of my friends had the same idea today. Beautiful pictures posted, for example, by my oldest Facebook friend (male, aged 90) and one of my younger ex-colleagues (female, definitely nearer my children’s age than my own) – proving that enjoyment of our surroundings and the simple act of going for a walk crosses all genders and ages. Ok, ‘all’ is an exaggeration, but you know what I mean!
Having failed to get in to see Present Laughter at the Old Vic for a second viewing last summer, I booked instead to see the NT Live Encore film showing of the production in my local (very upmarket) school theatre.
I was afraid beforehand that my recollection of how wonderful the production had been was exaggerated and also that, without the immediacy of being in the theatre – and the fact that this was not even ‘live’ now, because the show closed months ago – the performances would not be as sparkling. Fortunately, my fears were misplaced, and apart from the slightly annoying introduction which preceded the production, it was another excellent evening. Importantly, my husband laughed a lot and enjoyed it too – so I didn’t feel I was indulging myself too much.
And Andrew Scott! Every bit as amazing this time round. With his fame still increasing with each award season, I wonder how his experience of playing Garry Essendine reflects his current real life.
In fact, it was Present Laughter, in the front row at the Old Vic for one of the previews in June 2019, that set me off on my quest to see as much theatre as I can, now that I have the freedom to book at the last minute or shop around for cheap deals.
And it has also been my sporadic obsession with Andrew Scott (and Phoebe Waller-Bridge) which has led me to discover various directors, films, podcasts and theatres – so hurrah for that (despite my obvious concern about distractions in my previous blog-postfrom when I attended the live production. My short review of Present Laughter from that time is here.)
In the morning we took delivery of our new mattress-in-a-box*, which my still-hunky husband hoisted onto his shoulders and carried up two flights of stairs before unwrapping it (who needs John Lewis?). There, as instructed, we left it to breathe and puff itself up.
In the meantime, I managed to score a pair of Rush tickets at less than half-price for excellent seats in the stalls at the Bridge Theatre, so we headed up to London for the evening performance of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. The production is their Christmas one, but goes on until February and was still pretty well-attended. Apart from the appearance of Father Christmas (and he is, of course, in the original CS Lewis story), the festive nature was not too heavy. The production company had really gone to town on the costumes and stage dressing, with fantastic live-action draping of white silk across the stage to depict snowy landscape. The doors of the eponymous wardrobe were huge and had a collection of actors wreathed in fur coats behind, through which the ‘children’ could push their way into Narnia.
This play was not my usual cup of tea perhaps, but it was so well done and a hugely entertaining evening out. A great spectacle.
As usual, I raced my husband home, and as usual he won (because he’s on a motorcycle and I walk and take the train). Then we sat for a while discussing the performance before I retired to the bedroom – to find, beside my own capacious wardrobe, not Narnia, but a brand-new mattress and its discarded packaging on the floor! Which we had forgotten to deal with before going out.
Needless to say, excited to try the new mattress as soon as possible (those 100 ‘test’ days already counting down) we swung into action and carried the old mattress down one floor (took two of us this time – awkward shape) and completely remade the bed. At midnight! Could have done with Aslan’s help, to be honest…
*We bought the Emma Original foam mattress, as recommended by Which? It will be interesting to see whether I wake up less creaky than on our old one.
Went to see the Oscar nominated film ‘1917’ today. An early afternoon booking in an IMAX screen – a rare cinema visit for me.
The film certainly lived up to expectations for emotional and spectacular content. Completely gripping, so much so that I was not at all upset that my bag of Maltesers ran out long before the end. Quite gruesome – well, extremely gruesome, but that’s war for you. There was no pretending this was glorious in any way.
One additional and perhaps unexpected success, for me, was that my husband did no tutting and only very minimal head-shaking throughout, thus indicating that any artistic licence taken with how things would really have been was no more than could be expected in a decent feature film. Splendid. Money and an afternoon well-spent, particularly given the appalling weather outside today.
Oh – and once again, my Fitbit claims I was asleep for over an hour.
My last two posts both end with references to gin. I hope this does not give a bad impression.
I just saw an article in my Facebook news which has given me hope for 2020. Apparently drinking gin is good for you! I refuse to think that this might be fake news.
A group of late-fifty-somethings gathers in a hip restaurant in trendy Coal Drops Yard, King’s Cross. I expect our use of the words ‘hip’ and ‘trendy’ means that we were not their target clientele – but hey, we pays the bills, and they were charming to us.
After our usual self-congratulation that we all look pretty good for our great age, which of course we do, we settle to the business of catching up on the last 6 months’ news and trying to work out what it is we are actually eating from the various attractive sharing-menu plates set in front of us. No-one really cares – we just need to eat alongside our chat.
One of our number is sadly stuck on a train in Yorkshire – prompting much mirth that he had set off from his Home Counties station on a train going in the wrong direction. A predictable reaction – almost (ALMOST – let’s not completely let it lie) certainly inaccurate, as this particular friend has not previously fallen into the ‘flaky’ category nor does he have a history (as at least one other in the room has) of turning up at the wrong station simply because it starts with the same letter and is in a vaguely nearby county to the correct one.
It was a wonderful evening of chat, fuelled by a slightly smaller than usual quantity of alcohol as a concession to it supposedly being dry January for some. We got around some of the objections by sticking to the driest red and white wine on offer, and some pretty dry gin.
Nevertheless, despite our relative abstemiousness, on reaching King’s Cross underground station afterwards, a sub-group’s attempts to navigate to Waterloo station involved multiple confused viewings of the tube map, a late realisation that there was no direct line from here and an eventual decision to split up and take their chances on separate and alternative routes. Here’s hoping we all made it to somewhere accommodating.
Stupidly overexcited. I’ve just booked the flights for a holiday. A deal which was worth taking up immediately. I’m panicking slightly that now we’re committed to the dates, we won’t be able to find the right itinerary for an affordable price. This is always the way with me though – and it’s worked out ok before. Believe…
In the meantime, in order to economise before travelling, I have twice this week taken the bus instead of the train. I have saved £6 already! What a joy to be sufficiently time-rich to allow me this luxury. And I’m sure my accumulated savings will allow at least an extra large G&T when we get there.
In addition to the excess weight I carry in January, another hangover from Christmas is the increase in unwanted marketing emails received from present-purchase websites.
So this has been today’s New Year task – unsubscribe! No more Pinterest cowboy shirt ads (was a mistake in the first place – long story), auf wiedersehen to the friendly German drum equipment site (boom boom) and bon voyage to several jolly sailing clothes stores.
But, hang on. Can I really say goodbye to Kylie Jenner who has been my BFF since Christmas 2018? Several mails a day – a close relationship for sure. Hmm – sorry Kylie m’dear – but although you kindly, and successfully, prompted me to take advantage of Black Friday for a repeat order, yes, I think I will stick with my 2-year old lip-salve for now.
Keen to start my 2020s with something interesting, I happened upon a playwright podcast with Simon Stephens chatting to Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti about her work, including her new play now showing at the Jerwood Downstairs, Royal Court theatre. (See? Sometimes Twitter rabbit-holing comes up with useful references! *)
Mondays are cheap at the Royal Court if you can leap onto the website quickly enough of a morning, and I bagged myself a ticket to see ‘A Kind of People’ last night. I expected it to be a bit ‘worthy’ for my tastes, but the reviews had been pretty good and I decided I need to play a bit less safe this year.
In fact, it was excellent. Hard to listen to some of it, as the characters moved from their apparently easy relationships into societal meltdown. Issues of race and colour were the mainstays here, but pressing all sorts of other buttons: class and ambition; parenting choices and responsibilities; school selection and privilege; gender discrimination and expectation.
I am still not sure what side of some of the arguments was ‘right’ – and perhaps that was the point – I really am not good at this, ask my children! This time I genuinely felt it would have been good to take someone else along with me so we could have had the discussions on the way home. I don’t usually like to do that kind of post-show analysis but perhaps at last I am discovering an intellectual streak.
Probably not though – my Fitbit tells me I slept through the whole performance! Maybe I just dreamed the whole thing? I’ll try harder next time.
NOTE: In fact, the seats at Jerwood Downstairs are really comfortable and I had a decent sight-line to the stage even though I was a long way back. This meant I could sit completely still throughout – no need to fidget around. Although part of me is pleased this Fitbit reading allowed me to achieve (cumulatively and fraudulently) my sleep target for the day, it’s quite ironic, considering that the first mark of a good play, in my normal and decidedly unintellectual review scheme, is if I at no time during the performance feel in danger of nodding off. Sigh.
I’ve just finished listening to Adam Kay’s book ‘This is Going to Hurt: Secret Diaries of a Junior Doctor’ on Audible. After initially being unsure that I liked the format or his voice, I completely warmed to it and found it witty, informative and shocking in equal measure. Recommend.
Food for thought at the end. He makes a plea to anyone who knows someone working in the NHS, in whatever capacity, to support their friend/relative by encouraging them to talk about their work. ‘How was your day?’ ‘How are things?’ And actually listen and talk things over, sympathise – but mostly listen, and try to understand the stresses and personal emotional trauma they can be experiencing.
This reminded me of my own working life when I felt incredibly stressed a few years ago and needed to unload most days on my poor husband or unfortunate friends who happened to meet up with me. I didn’t do an important job like a health-worker. I therefore should have been able to walk away from the stresses or manage them better because at least ‘nobody died’ was pretty much guaranteed not to be a taboo statement and the answer to ‘what’s the worst that can happen?’ didn’t usually realistically involve the need for CPR. A complaint, a lawsuit possibly. Once or twice, a knock-on effect on a colleague’s mental health…
This is not to say at all that the stresses of accountancy or any other office job are not real, serious, potentially awful. I and others I knew reached low points requiring medical intervention. But the description of working in the National Health Service gave me pause for reflection at how much worse must it feel when not turning up at work could actually have immediate life or death implications for others.
Sobering – and as with so many things, the message delivered with humour as by Adam Kay seems more powerful to me than a march or a ranty Question Time debate. We’re all different I guess. Not sure whether I am getting more or less tolerant of politicking as I get older – and you won’t see me out on a march anytime soon! – but I feel I should do something to help. Awareness may not be enough, but I guess it’s a start.
A parcel addressed to my daughter was delivered yesterday, marked ‘Fragile’. She told me it was almost certainly a Christmas present for me which had been delayed and I could open it.
Inside were a pair of sarouel trousers. I was intrigued – sarouel was not a word I knew. I quickly tried them on. Bizarre! The crotch was incredibly low. I am short-waisted at the best of times, but this was just weird. Much hilarity and perplexity – were they badly made, or was this a hint that my stomach, after Christmas excesses, was enormous and needed that extra space? But hang on, the waist band was normal size.
I resorted to Mr Google and discovered that these were a form of harem pants. If I put my hands in the pockets and stood in the same pose as the on-screen model, I could emulate the style reasonably well (despite the Christmas gut). And they are comfortable, so I will keep them for the sofa lounging purpose for which I had requested new trews. Many thanks, m’dear. xx
However, I think I can get far more out of these than comfy TV-watching evenings. They have Massive Gusset Capacity – I could secrete any number of snacks in them, or indeed launch a shop-lifting career (if brave enough to leave the house in them, I suppose). I can pull them up to my boobs (if I had proper boobs it would probably even be possible to tuck them in, but mine are still too pert small to do that haha) and with a stripy top could pass for Marcel Marceau and do a bit of mime.
But for now, pulling the crotch down, more as intended I think, I am effecting a brazen swagger each time I walk past the hall mirror. This alternates between looking faintly amusing and being out-and-out DUCK WALKING! Keeps me out of mischief – and indoors! – I suppose.
PS. I have no idea why they were supposed to be fragile. Perhaps it was just a warning to open with care to avoid sartorial disaster.
My husband sold a boat today. A boat which he re-named with the Norwegian name for ‘bathtub’, as a reaction to someone’s joshing comment about how suitable it was for a North Sea crossing he was planning.
He successfully and single-handedly achieved the crossing in his bathtub more than 5 years ago: spending around 6 weeks aboard, rigging up a cleverly arranged tent each night, and tying everything down to avoid losing stuff over the side. Since then, he has acquired another boat which has – luxury of luxuries! – a small cabin, making sleeping and cooking just that tiny bit (ie LOADS!) easier. It has taken a while to decide to sell the bathtub. Strong memories, and no doubt an affection for the craft which gave him back some of his self-belief after a serious illness.
We watched her being towed away this afternoon with her new owners, ready for their own adventures. Quite a sad day…
…but on the bright side, the shed has now been emptied of all the related paraphernalia. Just waiting, I expect, for some new bits and pieces.
After a year post-employment, I have been ruminating happily on my successful transition, yet simultaneously fretting about what I’m going to do that’s as good or even better in the year to come.
Some people are just never satisfied!
And that’s completely the right thing – no sitting on laurels just yet.
My first challenge for the new year – how about trying to be more regular with these posts? Let’s see if I can manage 5 a week (generally one per week-day, but if I miss, try and make up at the weekend).
A feeling of almost total hopelessness. I don’t want to vote for any of the options available. And it is raining.
All is not lost though. There will always be some light. A most enjoyable scenario on election eve – in a local pub with three strongly left-wing friends trying hard not to reveal my complete political inadequacy (ie. whilst recently fascinated in the processes of politics, I truly don’t have one strong allegiance anywhere – they’ve almost all got policies I like and policies I don’t like), I was thrilled to hear that Zac Goldsmith had appeared at the next table to us. This set one of my friends almost into apoplexy and I was desperate for him to come and talk to us so I could snap a pic for her Facebook page. Although that would have broken one of my rules – don’t post anything political or comment on others’ political posts. (Saves loads of pointless keystrokes, does that!)
Sadly, hapless Zac was getting a pretty tough response from the next table (who we realised were known to us) and had to be rescued by the landlord whisking him off to the bar, and he never returned.
Interesting observation – whilst there were several men in the bar, the pub’s restaurant was almost entirely occupied by tables of women. Somehow all the local book-groups, school-mum friends and other leafy-borough female friendship alliances had chosen the same date and location for a pre-Christmas gathering. I guess that was a somewhat daunting prospect for a tired campaigner chap.
And I will vote. I can’t moan about the result if I’ve not even contributed. This is the only concrete and consistent ‘political’ view I hold.
To defer Christmas preparations just a little longer, I took a last-minute spur of the moment trip to Hamburg. Although I was trying to avoid Christmas in one sense, I was still keen to experience a German Christmas market in situ, to see how it compared with their exported ones (not that I’ve really investigated those properly anyway, but hey.)
Almost as soon as I had landed, I was exploring the biggest markets Hamburg had to offer. All seemed pretty much as expected, but perhaps more friendly and certainly livelier than some of the stalls I have seen dotted around near where I used to work in London and in the centre of my own town.
It was 5pm. It was very cold. Most people seemed to be clutching mugs or tall glasses of steaming liquid, and it wasn’t tea. Or indeed hot chocolate. Glühwein – I realised I had to have some immediately.
In my rather pathetic German I ordered the basic – a 0.2 litre glass of red – from the stall which seemed to have the most sophisticated glasses. I sipped carefully, then remembered that I really should take a pic for my Insta/Facebook friends. This entailed a wander over to an even colder area next to the lake where I parked myself on a bench to take said photo – below – which shows that my photography skills in the cold are far from excellent.
By the time I had achieved this, I was even colder so I quickly necked the wonderful warm drink.
There then followed a peculiar half hour where I realised the glühwein was stronger than any I had tried at home. Or perhaps it was my empty stomach? Or that 0.2 litres is more than I thought? Or that I am wimp. Wandering around the market, wondering could people tell I was on another planet. And, not wishing to bang on about the original theme of this blog, I should point out that my right eye was streaming so badly in the cold that I could only see out of the left one most of the time. (I genuinely wonder if people notice me crying.)
Anyhow, I now knew I needed to eat to soak up some of that glühwein, and my mission to experience the ‘local’ fare led me to a stall selling Thüringer Rostbratwurst where, once again, my basic German got me what I needed. That helped.
I am useless with alcohol. Apparently I don’t seem nearly as inebriated as I feel (unless my friends are humouring me and secretly enjoying my embarrassing antics) but this is a fond memory now of Hamburg – ‘middle-aged woman staggers pissed around the market seeking sausage’.
And although I successfully navigated my way back to my hotel, it took my backside fully two hours to defrost. Unlike the legendary Heineken, glühwein clearly doesn’t reach all parts.
It has rained a lot today. Finally got out for a walk. Intended just to go to the shop for a pint of milk but decided to go the long way round. This has happened before – rather than the nearest block walk, I went all the way to the park even though I didn’t have my phone. So I had to think instead – like, talk to myself. And that’s good – gets things sorted.
But, as I wandered through the deserted park as it was getting dark, I realised this ‘thinking’ is actually talking to myself. Hopefully not out loud – I don’t think so – but it is a substitute for telling my parents, or my friends, all about the things I’ve done or am thinking of doing. I had a moment of true sadness – why could I not be walking with my mum and dad and sharing all this with them? I don’t believe they still know all about me wherever they are – not really.
So, that was cheery! At least this time I remembered to get the milk on the home straight. (Well, at the local Sainsburys.)
Just finished Ben Smith’s debut novel Doggerland, which is a magnificent evocation of loneliness and dampness, sea and failing machinery, with endless searching for both personal and evolutionary history. I loved it – it is affecting and compelling.
Nevertheless, I don’t see the problem with also wanting to go off immediately and attempt a parody – Dogging* land. Balance the serious and profound with the light and ridiculous. Is that ok?
*Actually, this might be tricky to pull off as I confess to knowing more (even before reading this novel) about Dogger than dogging – no, honestly, all I know about dogging I got from Peter Kay’s Car Share.
A regular recent fear: leave the house, get half way along the road, realise from the cold on my backside that my oldest skinny jeans have finally worn right through.