Managed to pick the only non-rainy hour of yesterday to go running. Did good running. Got muddy and everything! And I was doing what they call military cadences so I must have looked and sounded a right nutter. Got home, stretched, got distracted by wonderful photos of my Mother and little brother from years ago, getting up was impossible, headed for the shower.
Nada.
The world went cold. Suddenly running was a really bad idea and my muscles (such as they are) were all about to freeze up and fall off. Even a squeeze of the pooch didn't help. But I turned on the immersion, picked up my book and curled up. I was about to be late to meet my pals. Anyway, fifteen minutes later, piping hot water.
Joy.
This blog post is about remembering those times when old-fashioned stuff saved the day. Immersion heaters to produce hot water when you're physically tired and achey, candles for power cuts in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere, tomato soup when you've just had a general anaesthetic and want your mummy despite being all grown-up, baked beans after a long and arduous journey, red wine for the long journey through every single day. There are countless others.
Warmed, refreshed, pathetically grateful, I dashed off to Islingtonia and had a lovely evening. So thanks pals, and thanks Immersion Heater!
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
43. Marathon Runners
I'm sure that when Pheidippides thought 'Ah, sod it, I'll run. The buses are so unreliable...' he can have had no idea that hundreds of thousands of loonies every year would decide to run 26.2 miles for fun. After all, whichever version of the story you read - the guy died at the end.
I know a few people who have run marathons, and one or two who run them regularly. These people all manage to hold down jobs and relationships and for the most part seem relatively normal. And maybe I'm just jealous - my two miles isn't even a warm-up to a marathoner, it's a stroll to the corner shop for a paper. But you know 26.2 miles is a REALLY LONG WAY. I heard that a friend was hoping to run this year's London Marathon in 3:45, and I found myself saying, 'Wow, that's really fast.' And it is, and will be, but we're not talking minutes and seconds here, people, we're talking HOURS and minutes. Three HOURS of running, and a good chance of chafing and bleeding nipples.
There were lots of marathoners in the parks and streets at the weekend (only a month to go!) and a couple I passed were holding a big bottle of power drink in each hand. You're running a vvvveeeerrrrryyyyyyy long way if you need that much hydration.
You can't just decide to run an official Marathon, you have to prove that you can raise a certain amount of sponsorship money. So not only do you have to train your body not to think that running that kind of distance should end in death, you have to focus on sponsorship for your chosen charity. I tell you, these people are AMAZING. When my big brother ran the London marathon a couple of years ago I met him just after the finish. His face was white with encrusted salt. His knees wouldn't bend so he walked along the street like a robot. He was wrapped in silver foil - and he was too knackered to make much sense - but the elation he felt, the pride, the sheer achievement of it was a remarkable and wonderful thing to witness. And he got to eat two Big Macs.
So I say to all those Marathoners - good luck, and well done.
I know a few people who have run marathons, and one or two who run them regularly. These people all manage to hold down jobs and relationships and for the most part seem relatively normal. And maybe I'm just jealous - my two miles isn't even a warm-up to a marathoner, it's a stroll to the corner shop for a paper. But you know 26.2 miles is a REALLY LONG WAY. I heard that a friend was hoping to run this year's London Marathon in 3:45, and I found myself saying, 'Wow, that's really fast.' And it is, and will be, but we're not talking minutes and seconds here, people, we're talking HOURS and minutes. Three HOURS of running, and a good chance of chafing and bleeding nipples.
There were lots of marathoners in the parks and streets at the weekend (only a month to go!) and a couple I passed were holding a big bottle of power drink in each hand. You're running a vvvveeeerrrrryyyyyyy long way if you need that much hydration.
You can't just decide to run an official Marathon, you have to prove that you can raise a certain amount of sponsorship money. So not only do you have to train your body not to think that running that kind of distance should end in death, you have to focus on sponsorship for your chosen charity. I tell you, these people are AMAZING. When my big brother ran the London marathon a couple of years ago I met him just after the finish. His face was white with encrusted salt. His knees wouldn't bend so he walked along the street like a robot. He was wrapped in silver foil - and he was too knackered to make much sense - but the elation he felt, the pride, the sheer achievement of it was a remarkable and wonderful thing to witness. And he got to eat two Big Macs.
So I say to all those Marathoners - good luck, and well done.
Monday, 29 March 2010
42. 'Frequency'
Frequency is a miserably un-famous film starring Dennis Quaid and Jim Caviezel as a father and son who contrive to speak to each other over a 30 year gap via a Ham radio. It must have been made before his exposure to Hollywood turned Jim Caviezel's religious faith into a crusade. Poor dear.
Anyway, it's not as hokey as it sounds - in fact, it's powerful and rather moving. You don't have to take my word for it. Herself, who does not take kindly to any kind of sentimentality and laughs in the face of bogus emotion - thinks that this is a good film. So there.
There is an element of wish-fulfilment about my enjoyment of this movie, but at its heart it's a decent thriller with the most colossal jeopardy for the lead characters it's possible to imagine. Parts of it still make me jump and Herself watches the last half-hour from behind a cushion. And the end is properly sob-worthy.
Next time you're at the video shop, give it a try.
Anyway, it's not as hokey as it sounds - in fact, it's powerful and rather moving. You don't have to take my word for it. Herself, who does not take kindly to any kind of sentimentality and laughs in the face of bogus emotion - thinks that this is a good film. So there.
There is an element of wish-fulfilment about my enjoyment of this movie, but at its heart it's a decent thriller with the most colossal jeopardy for the lead characters it's possible to imagine. Parts of it still make me jump and Herself watches the last half-hour from behind a cushion. And the end is properly sob-worthy.
Next time you're at the video shop, give it a try.
Thursday, 25 March 2010
41. Norwich
I've always had a very soft spot for Norwich - capital of the Eastern Counties. It's got two cathedrals, a castle, a covered market, two malls, a huge glass structure called the Forum which is actually the Library, two theatres, a river and one aunt. It seems to get more than its fair share of sunshine. It's small, but perfectly formed.
Bit like this blog post.
Bit like this blog post.
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
40. Two Miles
A kind person left a Brompton bike here in Aldeburgh, so today Herself accompanied me on a little jog/bike. We left the dog at home because when we took her jog/biking the other day she had to be pulled all the way and then sulked for hours. She likes doing things her way.
It's quiet in Aldeburgh this afternoon thanks to a cold sea mist, so there weren't too many people about to stare at my red face.
I jogged, and Herself cycled alongside, and we went for a couple of miles without really noticing it. Well, she did, because the saddle was uncomfortable so she complained quite a lot, but we chatted away and with her there beside me two miles felt like nothing at all. I don't think that cycling assistants are allowed in the Race for Life, sadly - but it works as a training method.
Two miles - still not far, and definitely not fast - but further than before...
(PS - Congratulations to those what ran the Sport Relief Mile. Hope it went well. Very proud of you.)
It's quiet in Aldeburgh this afternoon thanks to a cold sea mist, so there weren't too many people about to stare at my red face.
I jogged, and Herself cycled alongside, and we went for a couple of miles without really noticing it. Well, she did, because the saddle was uncomfortable so she complained quite a lot, but we chatted away and with her there beside me two miles felt like nothing at all. I don't think that cycling assistants are allowed in the Race for Life, sadly - but it works as a training method.
Two miles - still not far, and definitely not fast - but further than before...
(PS - Congratulations to those what ran the Sport Relief Mile. Hope it went well. Very proud of you.)
Monday, 22 March 2010
39. The ideal Sunday
Papers, coffee, no need to get up. Then we drove to Walberswick. Herself calls it Warbleswick which is an improvement in my book. We walked along the river, across the footbridge, through the fields, across the golf course and into Southwold with our friends, then we pottered in the antique shops and sat on the benches above the beach, in the sun. Yes, the sun. I played with the dog on the sandy beach, in just a t-shirt. (and trousers and shoes.)
Then we walked back again and by the end we were all flagging a little bit, which is when it came in handy that we'd booked a table at the Dolphin for lunch. We sat in the window watching the people, we ate fishnchips, the boys in the back fell asleep in the car home and again on the sofa in the cottage.
Then they had to get in the car to go back to the Big Smoke, which made Herself and I feel a little smug. It was a glorious Sunday, perfect for being much too short.
Then we walked back again and by the end we were all flagging a little bit, which is when it came in handy that we'd booked a table at the Dolphin for lunch. We sat in the window watching the people, we ate fishnchips, the boys in the back fell asleep in the car home and again on the sofa in the cottage.
Then they had to get in the car to go back to the Big Smoke, which made Herself and I feel a little smug. It was a glorious Sunday, perfect for being much too short.
Friday, 19 March 2010
38. Cheese & Onion Buns
Smith's Bakery in Aldeburgh (also in Southwold) bake their own bread on the premises. Their croissants are very good and the Danish loaves are delicious. But their most famous creations are the Cheese & Onion buns. I think most people would call them rolls but I am a fan of the word bun.
Anyway,
They are the size of a normal chelsea bun, but they are savoury, and topped with grated cheese and bits of onion. Then the oven has sort of melted and set the cheese and onion. But somehow they are still moist and - best of all - chewy. Find yourself a ripe tomato and get some port and hazelnut pate from Richard the butcher and you are quite a long way towards a top-notch beach sandwich. Since Thresher shut there isn't anywhere in Aldeburgh to buy a cold beer (apart from the pubs, obviously) so you might have to make do with a Ribena, and the obligatory packet of Ready Salted Walkers crisps. Take it down to the beach, make a hollow in the shingle for your bottom, sit, eat.
Anyway,
They are the size of a normal chelsea bun, but they are savoury, and topped with grated cheese and bits of onion. Then the oven has sort of melted and set the cheese and onion. But somehow they are still moist and - best of all - chewy. Find yourself a ripe tomato and get some port and hazelnut pate from Richard the butcher and you are quite a long way towards a top-notch beach sandwich. Since Thresher shut there isn't anywhere in Aldeburgh to buy a cold beer (apart from the pubs, obviously) so you might have to make do with a Ribena, and the obligatory packet of Ready Salted Walkers crisps. Take it down to the beach, make a hollow in the shingle for your bottom, sit, eat.
Thursday, 18 March 2010
37. Going 'Round the Back'
Herself, the pooch and I are back in Aldeburgh. There's lots to do here (not to mention we have to work every day) but there is one sure thing in every Aldeburgh day, and that's a trip round the back.
Right out of the front door, and up the town steps. Past the houses, across the road and onto the private, unpaved, miraculously potholey bit by the rather lovely Edwardian villa. Pause for some sniffing and maybe a pee. Round the corner onto the Cottage Hospital lane past the forbidding Victorian water tower, circled year round by rooks, and down the hill to the side of the tennis courts, pausing to sniff, pee and either admire the serve or not - depending on the serve. Along past the bowling green, pausing perhaps to ponder why none of my grandparents were bowlers and on to the top of the allotments. Slowly past the allotments (who's growing what, what's under that, what's going in there, etc.) The allotments are wonderful, and the school has one. Sometimes you see little scraps of no more than six or seven hard at work on their little patch. Joy.
Past the allotments to the back of the big houses. The one with the lovely duck pond has put up a high willow fence (spoilsports) but we can still peer through the gaps and wonder at the views from the top bedrooms and how pitifully easy it would be to write award-winning fiction if only I lived there. Right at the lane, and now we're really getting to it. The gritted path winds between reeded sludgy stream on one side, and wide open farmland on the other. On the horizon is the horizon. There is just me, the pooch, and some birds. The reeds rustle in the wind and my jacket swooshes as I walk, but otherwise there is nothing. The world goes quiet here, so this is the place I come to when the noise inside my head gets too loud. Follow the winding lane to the end, then up the wooden stairs to the river bank. This is the best of East Anglia, right here. The Alde flows into the sea a couple of miles downstream, but right now it's a wide stretch of river, dotted with boats. Away towards the estuary I can see the masts of Orford Ness, and behind me the rooftops of Aldeburgh look like a patchwork quilt. To either side there are fields and birds and the odd tree. The sky goes on forever here, so we'll have a pause to be thankful for this place and its 15 years of service to GCB's sanity.
Along the river bank, past the swans (any cygnets yet? Nope, too early for cygnets), and perhaps a little bit of singing. This is an excellent stretch for a little bit of singing and the wind is always too high for anybody to hear. The yacht club is to the right now, with the Martello Tower squatting just beyond it daring the marauders to try it, just bloody try it. Up another short flight of steps to the sea wall. Yes! We have everything on this walk. Left along the sea wall, wondering why oh why so many people park facing away from the beautiful view of the sea, away from the beautiful views of the river and the fields, and sit facing the rubbish bins. It is genuinely perplexing. One of these days I'm going to ask.
Past the water mill, checking for signs of occupancy or work so that the Aunt can be brought up to speed. Across the car park and back onto the sea wall. We're back in town now, so there are people in expensive jackets that have clearly never been worn, eating fish and chips delicately on the wall. Duck down one of the alleys to the high street and into the White Hart for half a pint of Adnams and a drink for the pooch, then home, for dinner.
We'll do it all again tomorrow. And we'll look forward to it.
Right out of the front door, and up the town steps. Past the houses, across the road and onto the private, unpaved, miraculously potholey bit by the rather lovely Edwardian villa. Pause for some sniffing and maybe a pee. Round the corner onto the Cottage Hospital lane past the forbidding Victorian water tower, circled year round by rooks, and down the hill to the side of the tennis courts, pausing to sniff, pee and either admire the serve or not - depending on the serve. Along past the bowling green, pausing perhaps to ponder why none of my grandparents were bowlers and on to the top of the allotments. Slowly past the allotments (who's growing what, what's under that, what's going in there, etc.) The allotments are wonderful, and the school has one. Sometimes you see little scraps of no more than six or seven hard at work on their little patch. Joy.
Past the allotments to the back of the big houses. The one with the lovely duck pond has put up a high willow fence (spoilsports) but we can still peer through the gaps and wonder at the views from the top bedrooms and how pitifully easy it would be to write award-winning fiction if only I lived there. Right at the lane, and now we're really getting to it. The gritted path winds between reeded sludgy stream on one side, and wide open farmland on the other. On the horizon is the horizon. There is just me, the pooch, and some birds. The reeds rustle in the wind and my jacket swooshes as I walk, but otherwise there is nothing. The world goes quiet here, so this is the place I come to when the noise inside my head gets too loud. Follow the winding lane to the end, then up the wooden stairs to the river bank. This is the best of East Anglia, right here. The Alde flows into the sea a couple of miles downstream, but right now it's a wide stretch of river, dotted with boats. Away towards the estuary I can see the masts of Orford Ness, and behind me the rooftops of Aldeburgh look like a patchwork quilt. To either side there are fields and birds and the odd tree. The sky goes on forever here, so we'll have a pause to be thankful for this place and its 15 years of service to GCB's sanity.
Along the river bank, past the swans (any cygnets yet? Nope, too early for cygnets), and perhaps a little bit of singing. This is an excellent stretch for a little bit of singing and the wind is always too high for anybody to hear. The yacht club is to the right now, with the Martello Tower squatting just beyond it daring the marauders to try it, just bloody try it. Up another short flight of steps to the sea wall. Yes! We have everything on this walk. Left along the sea wall, wondering why oh why so many people park facing away from the beautiful view of the sea, away from the beautiful views of the river and the fields, and sit facing the rubbish bins. It is genuinely perplexing. One of these days I'm going to ask.
Past the water mill, checking for signs of occupancy or work so that the Aunt can be brought up to speed. Across the car park and back onto the sea wall. We're back in town now, so there are people in expensive jackets that have clearly never been worn, eating fish and chips delicately on the wall. Duck down one of the alleys to the high street and into the White Hart for half a pint of Adnams and a drink for the pooch, then home, for dinner.
We'll do it all again tomorrow. And we'll look forward to it.
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
36. Holborn Library
There's nothing in it, really, apart from Large Print crime novels and slightly smelly old men sleeping in corners - oh, and the state of the art machines you borrow your books from - but it's a fabulous place. It smells of half hospital, half crematorium, half second hand bookshop. Everything in it is entirely grey, including the staff. The staff is a gallimaufry of oddities - as you would expect. The book selection is piteous. They didn't have any Dennis Lehane, Patrick Gale, Sara Paretsky or Donna Leon so my plan to borrow a week's worth of slightly guilty pleasure was entirely thwarted. I did, however, come home with a couple of novels for 'research' purposes (seriously) and a biography of Leni Riefenstahl which I'm hoping is going to make me feel better about myself.
As they have free wi-fi I could take the miracle machine along there, hole up in a corner and work without interruption all day when the builders next door are playing with their pneumatic drills.
I loved it. Is that weird? I'm going to go back with a packed lunch and make myself comfortable. It's a good walk, so I get some exercise, they have all the daily newspapers, it's quiet in the morning - it's like Soho House without the twats. And it's FREE!!!!
As they have free wi-fi I could take the miracle machine along there, hole up in a corner and work without interruption all day when the builders next door are playing with their pneumatic drills.
I loved it. Is that weird? I'm going to go back with a packed lunch and make myself comfortable. It's a good walk, so I get some exercise, they have all the daily newspapers, it's quiet in the morning - it's like Soho House without the twats. And it's FREE!!!!
Monday, 15 March 2010
35. Freelance Mondays
Herself had to take the car out to some godforsaken garage near Gypsy Corner this morning, so in true supportive fashion I got a lift to the top of Regent's Park. I put my little Shuffle on and proceeded to shuffle round the park - very slowly. The sky was blue, the birds were cheepin', lots of pooches were having their morning constitutional and looking very pleased with themselves and it was all rather lovely, despite the unfitness and the beetroot face and the indignity of it all.
Then I walked back trying not to think about my red face and smiling indulgently at the harried office workers as they struggled along the street with their coffees and bags and imminent meetings. Then I did some more exercises, while the dog stared at me. By the time I'd had a shower, put a wash on and spoken to my mother it was half-eleven. So I ate an apple and looked at my emails.
I tell you - it's tough. I may have no money and no immediate prospect of any money, and I will spend this afternoon bludgeoning my brains in the pursuit of fiction, but this morning was what my freelance life is all about.
Right - time for work...
Then I walked back trying not to think about my red face and smiling indulgently at the harried office workers as they struggled along the street with their coffees and bags and imminent meetings. Then I did some more exercises, while the dog stared at me. By the time I'd had a shower, put a wash on and spoken to my mother it was half-eleven. So I ate an apple and looked at my emails.
I tell you - it's tough. I may have no money and no immediate prospect of any money, and I will spend this afternoon bludgeoning my brains in the pursuit of fiction, but this morning was what my freelance life is all about.
Right - time for work...
Friday, 12 March 2010
34. Daffodils
I have a bunch of daffs on my desk at the moment. They arrived as pallid green stalks and became, over the course of a week, virulent yellow trumpets of Spring.
In the car going from London to anywhere nicer suddenly patches of sunshine whir past, bobbing in the wind.
If I can possibly manage it, a trip to North Yorkshire at around this time is like going to Daffodil heaven. The churchyard in Sowerby is an astonishing and moving mixture of crumbling gravestones and fresh, bright flowers - the daffs heedless of the etiquette of mourning, determined only to live the loudest, yellowest life they can.
I know some people find them vulgar, or just ordinary. But they are harbingers of better times to come. Their golden heads and emerald bodies are a reminder to us that the sun will shine again and we will feel its warmth on our skin. We will sit outside in short sleeves with our friends and sleep with the windows open. We will walk our dogs in flip-flops and run into the sea to cool down.
All that, from a bunch of daffodils. They're golden moments of hope.
Thursday, 11 March 2010
33. 'Lambing Live'
At the beginning of the second decade of the third millennium, the British Broadcasting Corporation schedules 7 x 1 hour live OB programmes from a Welsh sheep farm, so that the viewers of Britain can watch the little lambies being born, and see something of farm life, and learn all sorts of things generally about sheep.
An hour, live, at 8pm, on BBC 2, with Kate Humble and some ginger bloke, from a barn, with some incredibly pregnant ewes.
Rapture.
If this isn't the most bizarre, wonderful, idiosyncratic, eccentric television programme in the whole history of this mad island, I don't know what is. They kept saying things like 'We'll just have a quick look around... oh look, there's a prolapsed uterus over there, better have a look...' and '...lots of you have asked if the ring method is the best way to dock the tails...'
Really? 'Lots of you'? REALLY? Now I'm sorry but surely all the other sheep farmers in the British Isles are out in a barn or on a hillside stuck up to the elbow inside Esmerelda the Ewe? So the only people inside watching this nutty, beautiful, prog are other soft layabouts like me and Herself? So who are the 'lots' of people asking if they are docking their lambies tails properly? I'm confused, and - obviously - missing out on some big national secret. As usual...
My favourite bit (apart from seeing the new lambs, natch) was the bit where the ginger bloke did an 'experiment' on one of his sheeps, making her wander down lanes made of hay bales looking at photos of his ugly mug. It was, honestly, both hysterically funny and oddly reassuring. Farmers are mad, sheep are brighter than what they look, there is nowhere on earth like this funny little island nation. I know my judgement is skewed, but Lambing Live made me laugh, and it made me proud. We get wrapped up in expenses scandals and imminent elections and lynch mobs, and we spend too much time looking West or East - and we forget that the daffs and the snowdrops are blooming, the lambs are gambolling and somewhere on a hillside nearby a taciturn bloke with a big beard is watching while his collie rounds up his sheep.
For those what haven't read Dick King-Smith's seminal work, The Sheep-pig - right at the very end, after Babe has learned all there is to know from Fly the collie and gone to the sheepdog trials with his master, and been allowed to have a go, and done a tip-top job, he is called back to his master's side. And the gruff old farmer pats the pig's head, and just says,
'That'll do, pig. That'll do.'
Sob.
Lambing Live - last episode tonight. You have to see it to believe it.
An hour, live, at 8pm, on BBC 2, with Kate Humble and some ginger bloke, from a barn, with some incredibly pregnant ewes.
Rapture.
If this isn't the most bizarre, wonderful, idiosyncratic, eccentric television programme in the whole history of this mad island, I don't know what is. They kept saying things like 'We'll just have a quick look around... oh look, there's a prolapsed uterus over there, better have a look...' and '...lots of you have asked if the ring method is the best way to dock the tails...'
Really? 'Lots of you'? REALLY? Now I'm sorry but surely all the other sheep farmers in the British Isles are out in a barn or on a hillside stuck up to the elbow inside Esmerelda the Ewe? So the only people inside watching this nutty, beautiful, prog are other soft layabouts like me and Herself? So who are the 'lots' of people asking if they are docking their lambies tails properly? I'm confused, and - obviously - missing out on some big national secret. As usual...
My favourite bit (apart from seeing the new lambs, natch) was the bit where the ginger bloke did an 'experiment' on one of his sheeps, making her wander down lanes made of hay bales looking at photos of his ugly mug. It was, honestly, both hysterically funny and oddly reassuring. Farmers are mad, sheep are brighter than what they look, there is nowhere on earth like this funny little island nation. I know my judgement is skewed, but Lambing Live made me laugh, and it made me proud. We get wrapped up in expenses scandals and imminent elections and lynch mobs, and we spend too much time looking West or East - and we forget that the daffs and the snowdrops are blooming, the lambs are gambolling and somewhere on a hillside nearby a taciturn bloke with a big beard is watching while his collie rounds up his sheep.
For those what haven't read Dick King-Smith's seminal work, The Sheep-pig - right at the very end, after Babe has learned all there is to know from Fly the collie and gone to the sheepdog trials with his master, and been allowed to have a go, and done a tip-top job, he is called back to his master's side. And the gruff old farmer pats the pig's head, and just says,
'That'll do, pig. That'll do.'
Sob.
Lambing Live - last episode tonight. You have to see it to believe it.
Wednesday, 10 March 2010
32. Uniqlo
Who isn't fed up of this ****ing cold weather? The sun shone for a few days and we all felt like little daffodils with our bright faces turned to the warmth, but then it buggered off again and left us with our winter coats of flaky spotty dough-skin.
Ahem.
When I feel a case of the grizzles coming on, a quick trip to Uniqlo can often perk me up.
Today I bought a big lovely hoodie (hug a hoodie!) which I can wear both for trotting round the park and to keep the chills at bay while working at my little desk in the attic. The hood is useful for keeping the draught off my neck, and for frightening the neighbours.
I have several pairs of Uniqlo jeans, and Herself and I have relied on their T-shirts for years. If you're a sartorial idiot like me, destined to spend the rest of forever looking like an American grad student, Uniqlo can provide the essentials, and add a little touch of class. If you're a sartorial genius like my BF, a giant stripy T-shirt from Uniqlo can be anything you want it to be. There's always good stuff on sale and there is no reason - EVER - to spend more than £20 on anything in the shop. Uniqlo is like the Gap used to be, before it decided to sell 'fashion' to twiglets. If more proof of its wondrousness were required, it's hot stuff in NYC now too. So it must be good.
Lastly, there is a strange, but gorgeous, related product: the Uniqlock. http://www.uniqlo.jp/uniqlock/
Ahem.
When I feel a case of the grizzles coming on, a quick trip to Uniqlo can often perk me up.
Today I bought a big lovely hoodie (hug a hoodie!) which I can wear both for trotting round the park and to keep the chills at bay while working at my little desk in the attic. The hood is useful for keeping the draught off my neck, and for frightening the neighbours.
I have several pairs of Uniqlo jeans, and Herself and I have relied on their T-shirts for years. If you're a sartorial idiot like me, destined to spend the rest of forever looking like an American grad student, Uniqlo can provide the essentials, and add a little touch of class. If you're a sartorial genius like my BF, a giant stripy T-shirt from Uniqlo can be anything you want it to be. There's always good stuff on sale and there is no reason - EVER - to spend more than £20 on anything in the shop. Uniqlo is like the Gap used to be, before it decided to sell 'fashion' to twiglets. If more proof of its wondrousness were required, it's hot stuff in NYC now too. So it must be good.
Lastly, there is a strange, but gorgeous, related product: the Uniqlock. http://www.uniqlo.jp/uniqlock/
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
31. Lemon Barley Water
Along with the rest of London (and the nation, as far as I know) I have a cold. Sometimes a cold is just annoying, and other times it makes you feel like crapola. This is one of those. I'm lucky - I work from home, and work is light at the moment (code for: I'm unemployed, please help me) so yesterday I mainly slept and today I am sitting in bed tapping away on the Miracle Machine.
The dog is trying to steal the covers, which is entirely normal, and Herself pops in every few hours with aspirin/the paper/news of her travails. And sitting beside me is a 1 litre Volvic bottle filled with diluted Lemon Barley Water. I am channeling Roger Federer. It turns out that water with lemon-flavoured sugar-water in it is more interesting to drink than plain water. Who knew?
Lemon Barley Water is one of those drinks that Mums buy when you're poorly as a kid. Not 'ill'. When you're 'ill' you get Lucozade, strawberry jelly and a new book from the bookshop. 'Poorly' gets Lemon Barley Water and fishfingers and chips. It's all good. Anyway, in grown-up-land, where you have to do it all yourself, Lemon Barley Water proves its credentials as a purveyor of goodness. It's like summer in a glass, and on a cold March morning, when your head is a snot-geyser and all your joints creak like the Thriller video, it can really cheer you up.
The dog is trying to steal the covers, which is entirely normal, and Herself pops in every few hours with aspirin/the paper/news of her travails. And sitting beside me is a 1 litre Volvic bottle filled with diluted Lemon Barley Water. I am channeling Roger Federer. It turns out that water with lemon-flavoured sugar-water in it is more interesting to drink than plain water. Who knew?
Lemon Barley Water is one of those drinks that Mums buy when you're poorly as a kid. Not 'ill'. When you're 'ill' you get Lucozade, strawberry jelly and a new book from the bookshop. 'Poorly' gets Lemon Barley Water and fishfingers and chips. It's all good. Anyway, in grown-up-land, where you have to do it all yourself, Lemon Barley Water proves its credentials as a purveyor of goodness. It's like summer in a glass, and on a cold March morning, when your head is a snot-geyser and all your joints creak like the Thriller video, it can really cheer you up.
Friday, 5 March 2010
30. Going down a size
Sorry to be shallow (er than usual) but going down a waist size is a feel-good moment. It's not like I'm in single figures or anything, far from it, but for the first time since the Race for Life / Fattipuff to Thinnifer regime began I can see results. Which made it easier to do 15 minutes skipping in the garden this freezing morning. (Not Fotherington-Thomas hello clouds hello birds hello flowers skipping, hard core boxer skipping. It's really hard.)
I think it will also make me feel better about something else too... There is a sudden glut of twenty-something women wearing all-black, very short, unseasonable clothes, and 6-inch heels round my manor. They all look like they have super-fabulous lives and spend all their time earning huge salaries and drinking cocktails in smart places I'd get thrown out of. They intimidate the hell out of me (because they can walk in those shoes) and really piss me off at the same time. (It's possible one emotion creates the other.) This, along with a fondness for an early night and a sneaking interest in the horticultural, confirms my suspicion that I am now officially definitely ... 35. Ha ha!
I've got a new pair of trews on today, size ??, and those girls can bite me.
I think it will also make me feel better about something else too... There is a sudden glut of twenty-something women wearing all-black, very short, unseasonable clothes, and 6-inch heels round my manor. They all look like they have super-fabulous lives and spend all their time earning huge salaries and drinking cocktails in smart places I'd get thrown out of. They intimidate the hell out of me (because they can walk in those shoes) and really piss me off at the same time. (It's possible one emotion creates the other.) This, along with a fondness for an early night and a sneaking interest in the horticultural, confirms my suspicion that I am now officially definitely ... 35. Ha ha!
I've got a new pair of trews on today, size ??, and those girls can bite me.
Thursday, 4 March 2010
29. Catch Up TV
Mad Men was on last night, but I was out at an art thingy - hobnobbing with arty types, dontchaknow. But I'll be able to watch Mad Men tonight on my telleovision, on the very clever Catch Up TV gizmo. ITV doesn't seem to believe in Catch Up TV, but most of the other terrestrial and Freeview channels do, and it really is remarkably handy if you occasionally have to go out and pretend to have a life.
Herself mainly uses CUTV to watch incredibly boring 'factual' programmes, which are full of information about the world and are both entertaining and educational as long as you wouldn't prefer to watch Grey's Anatomy. I use CUTV to watch incredibly important programmes about life on Madison Avenue in the 60s and to find out what it would be like to be a sexy young surgeon in a strangely accident-prone hospital on the West Coast of America. It's RESEARCH.
When I can get myself organised I may upgrade us to Virgin + which is like Sky + without the sex. Then I'll be able to watch what I want, when I want. And as there is a good chance Herself will never learn how to use it - it will be drama all the way, baby.
Herself mainly uses CUTV to watch incredibly boring 'factual' programmes, which are full of information about the world and are both entertaining and educational as long as you wouldn't prefer to watch Grey's Anatomy. I use CUTV to watch incredibly important programmes about life on Madison Avenue in the 60s and to find out what it would be like to be a sexy young surgeon in a strangely accident-prone hospital on the West Coast of America. It's RESEARCH.
When I can get myself organised I may upgrade us to Virgin + which is like Sky + without the sex. Then I'll be able to watch what I want, when I want. And as there is a good chance Herself will never learn how to use it - it will be drama all the way, baby.
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
28. Cloud Buns at Ping Pong
They are not actually called Cloud Buns. They are Char Siu Buns. But they look exactly like fluffy clouds. I have no idea what they're made of. Maybe they're made of clouds. Whatever, they are toothsome and slightly sweet and inside they're stuffed with savoury pork and it's all just wonderful. Every time I go to Ping Pong I wonder if I've remembered them wrong and in fact they're not divine. But I've been a few times now, and they are, in fact, DIVINE. I can't even bear to think about them any more.
There are other good choices. The crispy duck rolls are very good, and last evening proved that the spicy chicken dumplings are also delicious. The pak choy kept trying to kill me with chilli so I left it to my more redoubtable dining companion, who is a) harder than me and b) had a cold.
Herself refuses to accompany me to Ping Pong because she thinks (erroneously) that it's expensive. But those cloud buns are a little bit of heaven, and how can you put a price on that?
There are other good choices. The crispy duck rolls are very good, and last evening proved that the spicy chicken dumplings are also delicious. The pak choy kept trying to kill me with chilli so I left it to my more redoubtable dining companion, who is a) harder than me and b) had a cold.
Herself refuses to accompany me to Ping Pong because she thinks (erroneously) that it's expensive. But those cloud buns are a little bit of heaven, and how can you put a price on that?
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
27. A good Bloody Mary
There are good Bloody Marys. And there are bad Bloody Marys. Bad ones are made with thin, bitter, cheap tomato juice, cheap vodka, too many spices, huge chunks of black pepper to shatter your teeth on and somehow taste weirdly gritty. Must be all the spices what haven't dissolved. A bad Bloody Mary is a thing of shame, because making a good one is relatively easy.
First buy good quality tomato juice. This is exactly the same principle as buying a good mattress for your bed, or good shoes for your feet. It is the bedrock; the foundation. Without it - you're stuffed.
Next buy good quality vodka. I like absolut, but Smirnoff is fine at a pinch. (No supermarket brands please. If you like those I suspect your next step is lighter fluid, so byebye and shut the door behind you.)
If you would waste Ketel One or Grey Goose on a Bloody Mary you should be forced to give me the bottle as a forfeit. Sheesh. Some people...
Now for the tricky bit. The blend of spices is a very personal matter - like body hair and Meryl Streep. Or body hair on Meryl Streep. I personally like Meryl hair-free, and a mildly spiced Bloody Mary. I think that salt, finely ground black pepper, a shake or two of Tabasco, a pinch of celery salt and a squeeze of lemon before you add the Lea & P makes for a wonderful Bloody Mary, as long as the vodka goes in first, followed by tomato juice, followed by ice, followed by spices, followed by Lea & P followed by slice of lemon and stick of celery if you're going to bother. Muck about with the order at your peril. The more eagle-eyed alcoholics will have noticed that I have missed out the splash of sherry that some feel is essential. At the risk of repeating myself, as I only have fine Fino or Manzanilla in the house, what the hell would I be doing splashing it into a BM? Get it together.
It's important not to overdo the BM consumption, or you'll go off them and that would be a shame. They are acceptable in watering places at the 6pm cocktail hour, accompanied by a crisp or a japanese cracker. No peanuts, please. They are acceptable at the French House on a Monday lunchtime (a trifle over-spiced, but not too bad). They are acceptable on Sunday before noon. Any more would be a waste.
Treat your Bloody Mary with care and respect and it will reward you with deliciousness and a hint of Cap d'Antibes glamour. And who doesn't need that in their life? Enjoy.
First buy good quality tomato juice. This is exactly the same principle as buying a good mattress for your bed, or good shoes for your feet. It is the bedrock; the foundation. Without it - you're stuffed.
Next buy good quality vodka. I like absolut, but Smirnoff is fine at a pinch. (No supermarket brands please. If you like those I suspect your next step is lighter fluid, so byebye and shut the door behind you.)
If you would waste Ketel One or Grey Goose on a Bloody Mary you should be forced to give me the bottle as a forfeit. Sheesh. Some people...
Now for the tricky bit. The blend of spices is a very personal matter - like body hair and Meryl Streep. Or body hair on Meryl Streep. I personally like Meryl hair-free, and a mildly spiced Bloody Mary. I think that salt, finely ground black pepper, a shake or two of Tabasco, a pinch of celery salt and a squeeze of lemon before you add the Lea & P makes for a wonderful Bloody Mary, as long as the vodka goes in first, followed by tomato juice, followed by ice, followed by spices, followed by Lea & P followed by slice of lemon and stick of celery if you're going to bother. Muck about with the order at your peril. The more eagle-eyed alcoholics will have noticed that I have missed out the splash of sherry that some feel is essential. At the risk of repeating myself, as I only have fine Fino or Manzanilla in the house, what the hell would I be doing splashing it into a BM? Get it together.
It's important not to overdo the BM consumption, or you'll go off them and that would be a shame. They are acceptable in watering places at the 6pm cocktail hour, accompanied by a crisp or a japanese cracker. No peanuts, please. They are acceptable at the French House on a Monday lunchtime (a trifle over-spiced, but not too bad). They are acceptable on Sunday before noon. Any more would be a waste.
Treat your Bloody Mary with care and respect and it will reward you with deliciousness and a hint of Cap d'Antibes glamour. And who doesn't need that in their life? Enjoy.
Monday, 1 March 2010
26. The Butley-Orford Oysterage
It was started in the mid-sixties by William Pinney, a local fisherman and business-owner who also caught the largest shark then recorded off the coast of Suffolk. I don't think it was a person-eating shark. Let's not dwell...
The Oysterage looks like an old-fashioned canteen, with tiled floors, and paper on the tables. There is a short laminated menu, and a wine list, but the experience is made whole by the daily changing blackboard. If you are an oyster-lover, they have their own beds - a little further down the coast. The oysters are sweet and succulent. They also do them on toast or in a glass of tomato juice which is weird but tasty.
If you order the sardines on toast, or the smoked eel on toast - that's what you get. That's EXACTLY what you get. Fresh sardines, or eel, on a bit of toast. No butter, no garnish (a very London idea) just that. Brilliant. My fish pie was a perfect dish of salmon, smoked haddock, summink else and prawns, in a scrumptious sauce under cheesy breadcrumbs. Because it was a main course it came with 9 large new potatoes. No salad, no garnish. Brilliant. Before my fish pie I had dressed crab salad. It was, as you will now be able to guess, a dressed crab, and salad. No mayo, no coleslaw or other fripperies. The salad comes with dressing, and they give you a bit of lemon. What more do you want?
Herself had the best dish on the menu: scalloped prawns. It's comfort food of the highest order, and I let her have the last one, because she is Herself, and she deserves all the good things in the world.
The ladies who run the Oysterage are all from Suffolk and they beam and if you're nice to them they beam summore and make little jokes. If you're not nice to them (and I have witnessed the poor lost souls who manage such dishonourable behaviour in such a noble setting) they still beam, but I hope they spit in your angels on horseback.
When you've eaten your delicious simple food, and made the lovely ladies beam and paid up promptly, you can try to walk to the old harbour, and maybe round the headland a little way. It's sublimely beautiful (to my eye) and even the strange buildings on the Ness only seem to add to the other-wordliness of this place. Orford and the Oysterage are not as well known as their smarter neighbours (Ruth Watson owns the posh pub in Orford, she can keep it) so they remain unspoiled. If you go (and I hope you will) remember - the first rule of Fight Club is, you don't talk about Fight Club.
The Oysterage looks like an old-fashioned canteen, with tiled floors, and paper on the tables. There is a short laminated menu, and a wine list, but the experience is made whole by the daily changing blackboard. If you are an oyster-lover, they have their own beds - a little further down the coast. The oysters are sweet and succulent. They also do them on toast or in a glass of tomato juice which is weird but tasty.
If you order the sardines on toast, or the smoked eel on toast - that's what you get. That's EXACTLY what you get. Fresh sardines, or eel, on a bit of toast. No butter, no garnish (a very London idea) just that. Brilliant. My fish pie was a perfect dish of salmon, smoked haddock, summink else and prawns, in a scrumptious sauce under cheesy breadcrumbs. Because it was a main course it came with 9 large new potatoes. No salad, no garnish. Brilliant. Before my fish pie I had dressed crab salad. It was, as you will now be able to guess, a dressed crab, and salad. No mayo, no coleslaw or other fripperies. The salad comes with dressing, and they give you a bit of lemon. What more do you want?
Herself had the best dish on the menu: scalloped prawns. It's comfort food of the highest order, and I let her have the last one, because she is Herself, and she deserves all the good things in the world.
The ladies who run the Oysterage are all from Suffolk and they beam and if you're nice to them they beam summore and make little jokes. If you're not nice to them (and I have witnessed the poor lost souls who manage such dishonourable behaviour in such a noble setting) they still beam, but I hope they spit in your angels on horseback.
When you've eaten your delicious simple food, and made the lovely ladies beam and paid up promptly, you can try to walk to the old harbour, and maybe round the headland a little way. It's sublimely beautiful (to my eye) and even the strange buildings on the Ness only seem to add to the other-wordliness of this place. Orford and the Oysterage are not as well known as their smarter neighbours (Ruth Watson owns the posh pub in Orford, she can keep it) so they remain unspoiled. If you go (and I hope you will) remember - the first rule of Fight Club is, you don't talk about Fight Club.
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