Shhhhh, don't say anything............

but it might be spring.

I have just sat in the garden with a cup of coffee and found myself basking like a cat, there is sunshine. The sky may be that thin pale blue of an over washed shirt but there are no clouds. The swelling buds on the tree are reflecting the light, looking like candle flames and there are exciting fat leaves the colour of acidy green boiled sweets unfurling in the flowerpots.

Ah, it is definitely Spring. I have had to come back indoors. Next door are having building work done and they've just fired up the angle grinder, so much for the bucolic idyll.

Small Happinesses

Sometimes the smallest thing can provide a ridiculous level of pleasure. Yesterday I bought myself a pie funnel, it is exactly the same as the one I used to play with in my Grandmother's kitchen 50 years ago, the one my mother had used when she was a child learning to cook. Sadly the original was lost when my grandparents house was cleared after their deaths. The memories weren't lost though and this morning I am lying in bed, catching up on my emails, making to-do lists and planning what pie to make.

Curled Up on the Sofa

We are so lucky there are now many different ways to keep in touch with our friends and family. I know everyone still loves a "real letter" although I am a shamefully poor correspondent. "Thank you" letters were a purgatorial task for me and the once weekly, vetted, letter home from boarding school even worse. My poor mother, one scruffy page of Basildon Bond covered in unformed scrawl was the only way she had to piece together what my life was like. I'm pretty sure after seven years she knew that Wednesday was laundry day and I didn't like Latin. The telephone was only for high days or dire emergencies and you stood in a freezing corridor clutching your hoard of sixpenny pieces waiting for your turn, glaring at the Sixth former giggling with her boyfriend

Now there is email, instant messaging, Facebook, Twitter and Skype. Everyone is just a keyboard away. Whoomph, message gone, news exchanged. Taptaptap, tweet sent, im on Facebook which can lead to some hilarious misunderstandings because of the time lag in the conversation or lack of nuance, never mind the gut wrenching embarrassment of sending a message to the wrong person when you have multiple "chat windows" open. Go on, admit it, I'm not alone in that.

This morning though I had a phone call with a good friend I haven't spoken to for far too long and curled up in the corner of the sofa with a cup of coffee we chatted about big stuff, frivolous fun and everything in between. As we talked I realised there is nothing to beat the human voice, the joy of actually being able to hear someone's happiness or, sadly, pick up from tone of voice that all is not well. Conversations run on without interruption, tangents can be explored and most importantly human contact is made.

This post isn't sponsored by BT but if there is someone you haven't spoken to for a while, ring. Life really does feel better.

A New Discovery

I am a masochist, I had no idea of this before today, but it seems I am. Why else would I go to Ikea at half term ? The ninth circle of hell where parents go to loose their children, little old ladies turn into attack dogs and I empty my bank account.

This was meant to be a very quick run through, with a strict list to be followed, no deviation allowed.

2 additional shelves for my Billy bookcase

1 desk lamp

A plant

A pot for the plant

A waste paper basket

Unfortunately it appears that Ikea have changed the size of their bookcases and of course I hadn't measured mine before I left because I knew that I needed the long ones. Except the long shelves are now 80cms, not 60cms so they don't fit. I feel this adds insult to injury and I indiscriminately called down the wrath of all the Nordic gods I could think of ....

(Research suggests Baldur would be most appropriate of these deities as he was killed with a spear of mistletoe.We all know it was actually a splinter from a flat back) ...... sadly he was no help at all as I tried to ram the shelf into the offending bookcase.

And the list ? Yes, I fell off the list. In my trolley I found mini Daim, meatballs and some glasses, but that's the law, isn't it ?

No tea lights though.

My New Hiding Place part II

I am really very happy up here in my eyrie, four hours work done and I'm pleased with, ooh, 20 minutes of it.

(The 4 hours don't include the Ocado shop, the Clarks order for swaggery boots which will enable me to dress up as Johnny Depp in "Pirates of the Caribbean", the long discussion with a friend about her wallpaper - the fact I haven't seen it didn't stop me giving a considered opinion - and watching the downfall of a dictator)

My New Hiding Place

The last few months have, yet again, been spent thinking about writing, lots of thinking but not much doing and that is despite much encouragement from friends.

Finally though I think I'm ready for the off.

The house cleaning which I was using as an excuse... the I must just "wash the floor/chisel the grime from the skirting boards/remove the Miss Havisham like swathings from the cornices" tasks are at last completed. Now, I'm not suggesting we have reached hygienic levels of cleanliness, but if I said that Time Team would have cheerfully conducted a dig here you may get an idea of what I was dealing with. I have also redecorated both children's rooms, which translates as I chose the paint, made tea and generally offered unhelpful suggestions whilst husband and son did manly bonding over paintbrushes. I have designed a huge bookcase too, where I can rehome the tottering piles of books that adorn every flat surface in the house.

After all this sorting, a modern day visit to the Augean stables, my reward was to make myself a place to write, hidden away, quiet, no distractions and three flights of stairs away from the biscuits. There is a bookcase, my favourite pictures on the wall in front of me, my ipod and an ashtray.

Let writing commence

Great Works of Art Revisited Part II

When I was at University I was never particularly fond of Dutch 17th Century art,

seen one ship in a storm seen 'em all...........

oh good, another bunch of flowers with creepy crawlies........,

but I always had a soft spot for their landscapes, broad sweeps of empty countryside with cows........... lots of cows. They appealed to my need for peace and silence and there was probably a subliminal influence from the industrial quantities of Babybel I ate in those days (good for hangovers)

Anyway, a few weeks ago, walking the dog I took this picture

but I saw this

(it's alright, I wasn't reading Veterinary Science)

My Return from the Wilderness

It is 5 months since I last posted here. 5 months exactly and that is far too long to leave something I enjoy. I have no valid excuse either, if I were to put my bum on a chair and my fingers on the keyboard eventually something would appear, for heavens sake monkeys can write Shakespeare.

The trouble is I got spooked, since finishing work so "I could write" the blank page has hung over me, like a banner pointing out my pretentiousness. I got writer's block before I could even pretend to be a writer. It was easier to scurry off to daytime television and sock sorting, but finally the time has come to get my arse in gear. No longer can I pull a face like a horse in a thunderstorm, backing away, eyes rolling.

Empty screen you don't scare me....... Much.

I have lists of topics to ponder on, some may require thought, others are more Pooteresque ramblings, daughters, the fluff from ones navel found as you contemplate it and why there is never quite enough to knit a jumper, the loss of my Edinburgh virginity, trips to the great Wen. Even, if I'm feeling particularly brave, the joys of decorating with Geekdude or the fatal addiction of Twitter.

So here we go...... time to push the "Publish Post" button

Oh, and thanks to Doug Savage for the cartoon, he does some great stuff. http://www.savagechickens.com/

Technology and the Technofailyphobe

I have never been somebody who copes comfortably with technology. I can do floaty fabric, splashy painty, random talky stuff, but when it comes down to the precision required by physics or computers I allow my brain to turn off. My husband is an engineer who understands numbers (even sums that use brackets) and our son is reading Computer Science at uni. I have used these facts as my excuse not to bother to learn more. (Also if I ask either child anything about the computer they rattle off the information so quickly and with so much flouncy eye-rolling somehow it just doesn't seem worth it)

Now I am the proud owner of an i-phone. The sheer excitement I feel about it is very uncool, but I actually feel as if I understand it, the whole thing is remarkably intuitive and other than one or two glitches (making the map huge and then not being able to shrink it again and telling it I didn't want it to talk to my i-pod ) I have found my way round it. For the first week I just looked at it askance and felt nervous but now I tweet, email, shop, watch films, read books and answer questions. Sometimes I even make phone calls. It has been a great ice breaker too, on my last 2 train journeys I have been given tutorials by the guys I was sitting next to. (Thank you Mr Gold Futures man and Mr Philosophy student man) Lots of help, albeit with a little metaphorical patting on the head, from people who used theirs in very different ways. Is there anything this little beauty can't do ?

My lovely, shiny new friend welcome to my life.

The Fragrant Mrs H

This morning I had a shower, which, fortunately for those I live with, is not in itself worthy of comment but as I applied gels and unguents all guaranteed to make me younger, smoother and calmer I idly totalled the products.

Shampoo

Conditioner

Soap

Facial Exfoliant

Shower Gel

Body Moisturiser

Serum

Moisturiser

Frizz Ease

Deodorant

Perfume

Eleven products for heavens sake and I don't consider myself particularly high maintenance.

World Book Day

This year I am on an economy drive. Having left work money for anything other than necessities is scarce. It would appear I consider books to be necessities. All the books in the picture above have been bought this year, along with half a dozen others that are already "visiting friends". Admittedly I was given book tokens as a leaving present by work and I allowed myself a treat with some of the money I got at Christmas but it is still a healthy haul for only 9 weeks.

At this rate the bookcases I am drawing up for the joiner aren't going to have space for long.

Postscript. The books currently on tour include "Kill-Grief" by Caroline Rance, "Blackmoor" by Edward Hogan, "Night Music" by JoJo Moyes and "Letters to Sister Benedicta" by Rose Tremain and then the postman has just brought me "Ottolenghi, the Cookbook", "Human Traces" by Sebastian Faulks, "Samuel Palmer, Vision and Landscape" and "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron.

Twitter, please stop recommending books

Today is less dynamic

Well, after yesterday's flurry of excitement today has been rather more relaxed. Snoozing has taken place.

In my head I want to look like this

this

or even this

I suspect it was more like this................with drool

Displacement Activity

Today was going to be the first day that I knuckled down and started to blog on a regular basis. Not regular as in once a month, or even once a week but words on a page (almost) every day.

So far I have :-

Twittered, a lot

Tidied my e.mails- all 11 pages in my in-box

Made bread - last done over a year ago

Hoovered behind the sofa - well I did do it in October when the new one was delivered

Updated my address book - using cards we received at Christmas 2008

Folded all the bedlinen - possibly never done before

Tidied my underwear drawer - mists of time

Cleared the lawn of dog poo - man's job

Ironed his shirts - it's 4 years since I last did any ironing

Transferred stuff from last years diary to this year's (and worried about that apostrophe)

Displacement activity ? Oh yes, but having made a start perhaps it will get easier.

If not, at least the house will be tidier.

The Eleventh Hour

Another learning curve.

In Harrogate we have one of the largest army training colleges in the country, 16 and 17 year olds come to learn "how to be soldiers". For most of them it is the first time they are away from home and the first time they have money in their pockets. In the town we are always aware when they have pass out weekends. The centre is heaving with wiry youths with regulation hair cuts lurking around McDonalds and the night clubs. Some of them look utterly lost, others already have a swagger that is noticed, and admired, by the young ladies of North Yorkshire.

Today was different, they were in town for the Remembrance Ceremony. Not youths but young men, wearing immaculate uniforms, a huge pride in themselves and their futures. An awareness of what their predecessors had given and what they may be asked to give.
Any of the soldiers I saw today could be a casualty of war in the next twelve months. Let's pray not.

Please Hollywood, leave it alone.

I was a "non-sporty" child, slightly nerdy, (which in the days before computers was unusual), solitary and cylindrical , I loved to read.

Many of the books that gave me pleasure then are still on my bookshelves and are regularly re-read. "Little Women", "The Hobbit", all the Narnia series, Jennings, Cynthia Harnett and Rosemary Sutcliffe, but the favourite of all was a battered copy of "The Little White Horse" by Elizabeth Goudge. It was my mothers, when she was young, a present from her Grandmother in 1946. A first edition no less, printed when all books were published under the "authorised economy standards". A book was a luxury in those days and treated with respect.

This copy is now shabby and faded, the pages have that soft powdery feel and it is well foxed, but none of that makes any difference to the story. A little girl, orphaned, is sent to stay with her Uncle in a beautiful but sad house. As she learns the story of her family and determines to solve what she sees as misunderstandings and injustices, we are drawn into the archetypal world of good and evil, joy and sadness. There is no escaping the fact it is a Christian allegory, although as I child I read it in blissful ignorance, it draws you in .

Then Hollywood got hold of it. I should be pleased. A book that is not high profile chosen for adaptation by a studio with thousands, millions, to spend on a production. But my heart sank, I was afraid they would not be able to retain a charm and gentleness the book has. There would be special effects, drama and derring do. There was; we had black leather clad baddies, more hippy crystals than you could shake a stick at (this was obviously the way to dilute the Christian element) a re-enactment of the Guinness advertisement with the Sea-horses and no geraniums. (When I was at the cinema I had the added bonus of a small child trying to remove my kidneys through my seatback with her feet, but I can't blame Hollywood for that.)

It wasn't my story anymore. It wasn't my childhood. They had made an entertaining film that all the children in the cinema, those not headfirst in their popcorn anyway, seemed to enjoy, but it was a lesson for me. If there is a book that you love, really love and the film studios get hold of it, be prepared for your illusions to be dashed.

No one can make better memories for you than you.

(This will not stop me going to see "Where The Wild Things Are", I never learn)

The Joy of... Twitter, (no beards, I promise)

I have just had one of the most entertaining days that I can remember, all thanks to Twitter. I will be blogging at a later date, in a more serious way, about what there is to enjoy about the site, but this evening it is more a snap observation.

I travelled to London today to meet @SamAtRedmag for lunch. Previously we have only ever spoken through Twitter and of course I was nervous but it was as if I was meeting with a good friend who I have known for years. Off we went into the highways and byways of life, the universe and everything, children, jobs, partners, shoes, books were some of the things we chatted about. And Twitter, without which this meeting would never have happened. I had a wonderful time and I hope she did too. After lunch I trotted through Central London playing postman with books that are travelling around the country to new homes having been recommended on Twitter. (Something of a relief to unload the extra ballast, I was getting gibbon arms by then)

After that my feet (as I ever I was wearing totally unsuitable shoes) were screaming for mercy so I took a cab (yet more excitement, I'm in a cab, in London, I'm a grown up, I'm in London) to St Pancras where I met 3 more new friends at the St Pancras Champagne bar where we got giggly and irreverent. Thank you @suellewellyn, @mcdulwich and @misspinks for trailing across the city. I have been talking to all three since June this year and met them briefly when I was in London for the Plinth (of which more on another day, I promise) but today was the first time I was lucky enough to have an extended witter (rather than Twitter). It was marvellous fun, chatting to three witty, glamorous women . Such fun in fact that I very nearly missed my train. There was no way I could run in my shoes, so having made a dignified exit from the bar (smiling prettily at the delightful host), as soon as I was round the corner I kicked them off and sprinted, barefoot, to Kings Cross and threw myself back into reality.

So, here I am on the train, on the way back up North, having had a wonderful day and looking forward to meeting up again as soon as possible. National Express can look forward to an increase in their profit margins.

Afterword. Sunday, 1st November. Reading the above, I can tell just how much I enjoyed the champagne bar. The style is even more effusive than usual, but actually, I don't care. It was a day that was entertaining from start to finish. I had managed to leave my phone and make up at home having done a handbag swap, but I had my lap top so I could email and Twitter, don't panic, nothing is insurmountable. The beflustered, pink and piggy eyed woman was rescued with a complete makeover by the lovely Shanelle at Bobby Brown in Selfridges and I met some fascinating people. Not least the young lady on the train South who inspired me to go back to singing and the delightful gentleman on the evening train, a retired Professor of Economics with whom I had a conversation about Jesuit Art.

Life is for living, seize the day, step forward not back. All cheesy, all cliches, but Wednesday proved to me how true they are.

Oh, and the beard reference ? I am a child of my times, every time I see "Joy of..." I think "sex" and the hippy, freelurve illustrations in the first editions. Never play word association with me unless you can afford therapy.

Great Works of Art revisited. An occasional series

Hard to spot the difference isn't it ?

With apologies to George Stubbs and the Tate Gallery

The guilt, the guilt

I read a lot of wonderful blogs, many of which are written by women with young children detailing their lives and learning curves. Oh, the memories, the joy in their children. The rueful smiles and blissful hugs. They do instil in me a measure of guilt though. I have realised my parenting skills leave much to be desired and listed below are a few of my "less nurturing" moments from the last 20 years.

I plunge into sleep before they are home and if I do wake when they get back, I complain about being woken.

Any chocolate left in the kitchen is fair game.

I put their clothes in the washing machine when I want to, which is not necessarily when they need them.

When they were young it was not unknown for me to eat treats I had purchased for them 2 or 3 times before the children actually got them. Cadburys buttons a speciality.

I refused to write a essay for a module in GC's Graphics A level.

If they are home at suppertime I will feed them, if they aren't, I don't.

I always have used a "riper" vocabulary than perhaps I should in front of them, resulting in the family story of my small boy from back of car asking "so, which car are the dozy tossers in Mummy ?"

The tooth fairy forgot to visit on a regular basis.

I still have my school reports, not convinced I could put my hand to theirs.

I talk to their friends (big sin, big,big sin)

I did not take the day off work to accompany either child to get A' level or GCSE results.

I cheat at Jenga.

I have been known to sing (and horror of horrors dance) in public

When they were young I used to sleep with my fingers in my ears - allegedly. (I am sure the picture above was photo shopped)


And do you know ? Despite this benign neglect, (not once did I congratulate them for breathing, walking or even using a knife and fork) they have turned into jolly nice people.

Long walk and little things.

There really was a feel of Autumn in the air today, leaves are beginning to turn, berries are showing colour and the fungi are more plentiful. Most of all there is that damp musty scent in the air, how are we heading into Autumn without a Summer ?

Digger for M

I suspect Mr Spielberg is unlikely to loose sleep over this, I am not a natural cineaste however it does give an idea of the lollop in action. Not at full lick as he could not bring himself to leave "Master".