My friends and family are very sweet to me, and tolerate my habit of saying 'Hello Darling!' to every dog I pass in the street. They know, I think, that I can't help myself, and that the owners don't assume I'm talking to them. Or maybe the owners don't mind hearing the odd endearment, and simply take it as their due.
Anyway, I walked the length of Charlotte Street this afternoon behind a very smart and pretty puppy (and his owner) and for every person who walked past without a flicker of acknowledgment, there was one who smiled, or grinned, or stopped to say hello. While I hate to add to the prejudice in the world, I know that I like the smiley stoppers more than I like the others. As the owner of the best and most beautiful pooch in the entire universe (sorry Enzo, sorry Charlotte, sorry Sophie, sorry Amy - but it's true) I measure strangers by their reaction to my dog. When she was a puppy we couldn't move her ten yards down the street without being stopped for people to coo over her, and even now she's 10 she still gets her fair share of stoppers. She also elicits broad beams of doggie-lovin' pleasure from men and women she passes in the street, even when she gets in their way and seems to be trying to trip them up. A man once stopped me to say that I should have all her milk ducts cut out immediately as his Westie had died prematurely from cancer, and while his tone and message were abrupt and rather alarming I recognized a grieving soul, and sympathised heartily with his loss.
The point (if there is one) is that London moves at a furious pace, and we move relentlessly between home and work and home again without raising our heads. But amidst all the noise and traffic and endless, endless people there are tiny pockets of pleasure to be had - whether it's a dog, or a window-box, or a splendid outfit.
So the next time you're in the street, and a dog bumps you out of your city reverie for a second, give him a smile. You'll feel better for it.
Friday, 30 April 2010
Thursday, 29 April 2010
60. NOT working in an office
I had to go and work in an actual real office today. It was noisy, it was too hot, I had to spend money on my lunch rather than wandering downstairs and raiding the fridge, I didn't have a computer so it was like 1963 - it was awful. I missed my eyrie, and my dog, and my autonomy.
It's the latter, for me, that's so crucial. I worked in offices for years and years and it took me forever to realise that maybe I didn't have to do that any more. I still work in an office, so maybe that term is misleading, but probably you know what I mean. I still get up every day at much the same time, I still get to my desk at much the same time, I still knock off at 6 or thereabouts - but now I set the agenda. I don't have to spend the day in pointless meetings. I don't have to eat Pret a Manger sandwiches unless I want to (which I don't). I don't have to put up with other people's bad habits and flatulence and smelly feet/lunches.
Sometimes it gets a bit lonely up here all by myself. There's no water cooler chat or collective moaning, or impromptu beers in the evening. I have to pay my own taxes, rustle up my own clients, organize my time effectively and resist the lure of the shops. But all of that is fine. Even low-work periods are fine compared to the thought of going back to the 9 to 5. Maybe one of these days I'll go back to being an office worker and I"ll have to swallow my pride and my words and my hat. But I"m going to try not to let it happen - because up here in my eyrie I feel free.
It's the latter, for me, that's so crucial. I worked in offices for years and years and it took me forever to realise that maybe I didn't have to do that any more. I still work in an office, so maybe that term is misleading, but probably you know what I mean. I still get up every day at much the same time, I still get to my desk at much the same time, I still knock off at 6 or thereabouts - but now I set the agenda. I don't have to spend the day in pointless meetings. I don't have to eat Pret a Manger sandwiches unless I want to (which I don't). I don't have to put up with other people's bad habits and flatulence and smelly feet/lunches.
Sometimes it gets a bit lonely up here all by myself. There's no water cooler chat or collective moaning, or impromptu beers in the evening. I have to pay my own taxes, rustle up my own clients, organize my time effectively and resist the lure of the shops. But all of that is fine. Even low-work periods are fine compared to the thought of going back to the 9 to 5. Maybe one of these days I'll go back to being an office worker and I"ll have to swallow my pride and my words and my hat. But I"m going to try not to let it happen - because up here in my eyrie I feel free.
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
59. The Guide Hound of Claddaghduff
The last time my family went on holiday to the west, we stayed in a bungalow in Claddaghduff - which is the village nearest Omey Island. Big brother Patrick joined us for part of the holiday, and one night he and I decided to walk down to Sweeney's pub for a drink. The lane is just about tarmac, but it's pitted and rough and there weren't any street lights. Patrick had brought his headlamp, so we set off following the beam. Before long we noticed that the beam was no longer showing us the road, it was lighting up a hairy canine bottom. We called the dog to us and recognised him as belonging to the family next door. We tried to send him home, but he wouldn't go. Instead, he ran ahead of us, his bottom always in the beam, and guided us safely to Sweeney's.
A couple of hours later, after some Guinness and some excellent music, Patrick and I headed home. And there once more was the hairy bottom. The dog had been trained, or had learned, to guide his master (or anybody, really) to and from Sweeney's pub. Good dog. Brilliant dog.
Last weekend I drove back up that lane, and easily recognised the bungalow and the stone house next door which 16 years ago had a family of 12 living in it - along with that exemplary hound. As we were turning the car round, a small dog appeared in the road. It wasn't the same dog, but it was very similar - scrappy and strong. He ran alongside the car for a while and I'll tell you the temptation to get out and see if he would guide me to Sweeney's was powerful, even though it was daylight. But we left him standing on the lane, waiting for his next opportunity to do his duty.
I have told Blue this story. She doesn't think much of it. I think she's jealous.
A couple of hours later, after some Guinness and some excellent music, Patrick and I headed home. And there once more was the hairy bottom. The dog had been trained, or had learned, to guide his master (or anybody, really) to and from Sweeney's pub. Good dog. Brilliant dog.
Last weekend I drove back up that lane, and easily recognised the bungalow and the stone house next door which 16 years ago had a family of 12 living in it - along with that exemplary hound. As we were turning the car round, a small dog appeared in the road. It wasn't the same dog, but it was very similar - scrappy and strong. He ran alongside the car for a while and I'll tell you the temptation to get out and see if he would guide me to Sweeney's was powerful, even though it was daylight. But we left him standing on the lane, waiting for his next opportunity to do his duty.
I have told Blue this story. She doesn't think much of it. I think she's jealous.
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
58. Omey Island
Omey Island is tiny, separated from the mainland by a strand of shallow water that at low tide reveals three miles of golden sand. In the summer at low tide they have horse races on the strand - it's that kind of place. Omey is a sacred island for the people of the West of Ireland, and it is sacred for the Bakers too, as that is where my mother scattered my father's ashes 18 years ago.
When on family holidays in the area we'd drive across the sand, put down our picnic rug and stay there for the day. When the small brother was a baby he was fond of eating the thistles and sand of Omey Island, and look how tall and handsome he turned out. Mum spent most of the day with her bottom in the air, fishing about under the sand with her badger paws looking for cockles (which then she made us eat - not so good.)
Dad gave me my first ever driving lesson on Omey, but gave up when I hurtled towards one of the few immoveable objects in the strand at 40 miles per hour, in reverse. Why were we going backwards, when we could have been going forwards? At the end of the day we all piled in to Sweeney's pub just across the water for a Britvic 55 or a Cidona before going back to whichever rented cottage we were in for sausages and mash. Compared to that, you can keep posh hols in hot places.
So last weekend I walked across the strand, which was still wet and covered in bumpy squiggles of sand, to the island and had a little mooch about. I stood on a high point and looked across to the mainland, and down the estuary both ways - left to the Atlantic, right to the sea lough - and thought that a nice island with a view and a regular horse event was exactly the kind of thing he liked.
There are a few houses on Omey but both the cemetery and the island itself are safe from development which shows that the Irish are smart about some things. There was a gaggle of nice looking cows standing together having a cow meeting and my sister remembers meeting a nice old chap who lived there who had an excellent dog called Rex.
So Omey was always special - and one day I hope the next generation of sand-eating Bakers will eat their egg sandwiches on a rug, and swim in the sea, and stand on a high spot and think that a view and some cows and a regular horse event is just exactly right.
Monday, 26 April 2010
57. The Human Eye
Just back from three days in Connemara. Loved every minute of it and will be ekeing out every last detail for blog entries over the next few days. My only disappointment has been in the quality (or lack of it) of my photography. We stopped the car frequently to take pictures of the gobstopping scenery, but they're no good, because Ireland doesn't work in 2D. You had to be there, with the air in your lungs and on your face, and the sound of the lough lapping at the rocks at your feet - the ancient hillsides stretching away into forever - the brand new 'Best Gift Shop in Ireland' just behind you and mercifully out of sight.
The most boring pictures are of the most painfully beautiful sights. One set of photos - from the road towards Cashel, posted here - look plain and brown, but in 3D and standing there, the power of it moved me nearly to tears. I'm susceptible, I know, but of all the places I have been, and scenery I have looked at, these craggy Irish hills mean the most.
So our eyes are still more use to us than cameras, because they are connected to our ears, and our skin, and our hearts.
Thursday, 22 April 2010
56. Bread and Cheese
Good bread, obviously. And the finest cheeses known to humanity. But if you're actually hungry a slice of mother's shame and a triangle of Dairylea is food for the gods.
Herself and the dog are clinically addicted to cheese, so evenings on which we have bread and cheese and salad (and wine) for supper are usually eventful. I have to watch my supper very carefully or risk it disappearing. Last night it was baguette, Manchego, Beurre d'Isigny Camembert and Boursin (oh so cosmopolitano!). Plus pinot noir and a tomato salad. Yumptious. The dog patted my foot with her paw every twenty seconds for half an hour just to remind me that no cheese need go to waste. In fact, it might have been Herself doing that...
Bread and Cheese is the perfect food for travelling, as it is available in all languages at all times of the day and night. When you come in wet and cold from a long winter walk a slab of cheddar on a bit of bread and a mug of steaming sweet tea will stop your teeth chattering in no time. When you've just moved in to a new house, or arrived at a rented place it's good too, because you don't need a plate and your Swiss Army knife will do the job if you want to be fancy and not just use your teeth.
You can dress it up and dress it down but other than a glass of wine you don't need much else to sustain life and restore energy and good spirits. There are fancier suppers, but they are not necessarily better suppers.
Herself and the dog are clinically addicted to cheese, so evenings on which we have bread and cheese and salad (and wine) for supper are usually eventful. I have to watch my supper very carefully or risk it disappearing. Last night it was baguette, Manchego, Beurre d'Isigny Camembert and Boursin (oh so cosmopolitano!). Plus pinot noir and a tomato salad. Yumptious. The dog patted my foot with her paw every twenty seconds for half an hour just to remind me that no cheese need go to waste. In fact, it might have been Herself doing that...
Bread and Cheese is the perfect food for travelling, as it is available in all languages at all times of the day and night. When you come in wet and cold from a long winter walk a slab of cheddar on a bit of bread and a mug of steaming sweet tea will stop your teeth chattering in no time. When you've just moved in to a new house, or arrived at a rented place it's good too, because you don't need a plate and your Swiss Army knife will do the job if you want to be fancy and not just use your teeth.
You can dress it up and dress it down but other than a glass of wine you don't need much else to sustain life and restore energy and good spirits. There are fancier suppers, but they are not necessarily better suppers.
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
55. Packing
I am rubbish at packing. I always forget something crucial like underwear or my pyjamas. Herself's eyes roll about in her head quite wildly when it comes to my packing - but even though I do it badly, I enjoy it.
And why wouldn't I? Packing means I'm going away. Packing is an opportunity to wrestle my ridiculous teenage wardrobe into something I might just about call 'capsule'. Packing is a chance to buy little plastic containers from Muji, and tiny portions of shampoo and conditioner from Superdrug. Ooh, maybe I need to buy one of those towels that gets things dry like magic. And there's always a good chance that suddenly none of my bags will be suitable and I'll have to treat myself to a cool new one.
The best packing used to be before we went to NYC. We just packed two pairs of shoes and a spare pair of underpants. But those days of carefree cheap shopping are long gone. Sigh.
Me and the BP are off to Ireland on Friday. The fallout from Ejollkdskdjowijldlllhalshdlsklsllll has stopped (Kinda, we're just ignoring it, I think) and there's a good chance our Ryanair tub will spirit us across to the Emerald Isle after all. There's also a good chance we'll spend the weekend at Stansted. But let's not dwell...
What's fun in packing terms about this weekend is that Ryanair are total fascists and charge £20 EACH WAY for you to check a bag into the hold - so we're going carry-on. The acceptable bag dimensions are laughable but talk about a challenge! Can I get full rain gear, my running stuff, clothes for three days of god knows what weather, and shoes and toiletries and a book and my camera and a spare battery and a day bag and a pen and a roll of mints into a bag teeny enough to suit Ryanair? CAN I?
No. It would be absurd for me to take my running gear when I am planning to drink my considerable body weight in Smithwicks every day. I will not take full rain gear on principle. I only need one pair of shoes. OK - maybe two. And it's not as if we need worry about high fashion - we're going to Connemara not Milan.
This trip has more in common with the Famous Five than anything else. We'll just take jerseys, shorts and wellies. And small plastic containers. Even I can get that packing right. Can't I?
And why wouldn't I? Packing means I'm going away. Packing is an opportunity to wrestle my ridiculous teenage wardrobe into something I might just about call 'capsule'. Packing is a chance to buy little plastic containers from Muji, and tiny portions of shampoo and conditioner from Superdrug. Ooh, maybe I need to buy one of those towels that gets things dry like magic. And there's always a good chance that suddenly none of my bags will be suitable and I'll have to treat myself to a cool new one.
The best packing used to be before we went to NYC. We just packed two pairs of shoes and a spare pair of underpants. But those days of carefree cheap shopping are long gone. Sigh.
Me and the BP are off to Ireland on Friday. The fallout from Ejollkdskdjowijldlllhalshdlsklsllll has stopped (Kinda, we're just ignoring it, I think) and there's a good chance our Ryanair tub will spirit us across to the Emerald Isle after all. There's also a good chance we'll spend the weekend at Stansted. But let's not dwell...
What's fun in packing terms about this weekend is that Ryanair are total fascists and charge £20 EACH WAY for you to check a bag into the hold - so we're going carry-on. The acceptable bag dimensions are laughable but talk about a challenge! Can I get full rain gear, my running stuff, clothes for three days of god knows what weather, and shoes and toiletries and a book and my camera and a spare battery and a day bag and a pen and a roll of mints into a bag teeny enough to suit Ryanair? CAN I?
No. It would be absurd for me to take my running gear when I am planning to drink my considerable body weight in Smithwicks every day. I will not take full rain gear on principle. I only need one pair of shoes. OK - maybe two. And it's not as if we need worry about high fashion - we're going to Connemara not Milan.
This trip has more in common with the Famous Five than anything else. We'll just take jerseys, shorts and wellies. And small plastic containers. Even I can get that packing right. Can't I?
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
54. A Busy Day
There hasn't been much work around for this freelance copywriter recently, and while I have been writing fiction, and trying to find new clients and generally keeping busy, I haven't actually been busy. There are many many good things about the freelance life, but one of the bad things is that you don't get that Friday feeling. A pint outside the pub on a Friday evening doesn't have the same blissful tang of freedom about it when you can do it whenever you want...
But yesterday, I had a properly busy day. I had a job of work to do which was challenging technically and then the client decided to be challenging too so I was under some actual stress. Then there were various administrative tasks which had to be taken care of, in the midst of which the man came to take the poor old Mercedes away. Herself had a meeting over lunch so I ate my sandwich in the basement and was back at my desk 15 minutes later. Broke the back of the job of work, then set off for Sarf London to collect the new car. Herself was a jangling ball of nerves and worry all the way home which didn't make for the most peaceful journey, but the Audi is a dream - thanks for asking.
Sent off the job of work to the challenging clients, and went for a two mile run with my brother. No, not that one, the other one. I know! That was fun but I know now that I can't leave it a week between runs. Home, shower, make the dinner, relax.
Phew! Great day. Loved it. Busy - that's what we like.
But yesterday, I had a properly busy day. I had a job of work to do which was challenging technically and then the client decided to be challenging too so I was under some actual stress. Then there were various administrative tasks which had to be taken care of, in the midst of which the man came to take the poor old Mercedes away. Herself had a meeting over lunch so I ate my sandwich in the basement and was back at my desk 15 minutes later. Broke the back of the job of work, then set off for Sarf London to collect the new car. Herself was a jangling ball of nerves and worry all the way home which didn't make for the most peaceful journey, but the Audi is a dream - thanks for asking.
Sent off the job of work to the challenging clients, and went for a two mile run with my brother. No, not that one, the other one. I know! That was fun but I know now that I can't leave it a week between runs. Home, shower, make the dinner, relax.
Phew! Great day. Loved it. Busy - that's what we like.
Friday, 16 April 2010
53. Cooking while Dancing
Now, seriously, this is not for amateurs. It's pretty skilled and requires both rhythm and grooviness.
As a general guide for beginners:
Today is Blue's birthday party, with many (but NOT ALL) of her favourite bipeds foregathering to wish her a happy first decade. Sadly, Blue can't cook, so it's up to me to prepare the dinner. We're having lasagna. So - I grasp my trusty 12" Global and prepare to chop, fry and simmer a delicious meat ragu into existence. To help me along the way, I select my favourite cheesy radio station (no, I will not tell you which one it is) and sure enough before long they're playing Earth, Wind and Fire. Perfect. Chop chop chop, shimmy shimmy shimmy, chop chop chop. Because I am both experienced and oh so hip, I can chop while shimmying, but it is DANGEROUS. That knife is sharp. But so are my dancing skills. Oh yeah.
Needless to say, unless you are Justin Timberlake, this is not a spectator sport, because you'll look like a bloody idiot. However, unless I'm very much mistaken you will be cooking with a big grin on your face, and I'll be blowed if that happiness doesn't transfer itself into the taste of the food. So bear that in mind the next time you're cooking. Add a little wiggle, a secret shimmy, into the mix and see if you can't taste the difference.
Happy Birthday Blue!
NB: Never dance while operating hot liquids. That's just stupid.
As a general guide for beginners:
Today is Blue's birthday party, with many (but NOT ALL) of her favourite bipeds foregathering to wish her a happy first decade. Sadly, Blue can't cook, so it's up to me to prepare the dinner. We're having lasagna. So - I grasp my trusty 12" Global and prepare to chop, fry and simmer a delicious meat ragu into existence. To help me along the way, I select my favourite cheesy radio station (no, I will not tell you which one it is) and sure enough before long they're playing Earth, Wind and Fire. Perfect. Chop chop chop, shimmy shimmy shimmy, chop chop chop. Because I am both experienced and oh so hip, I can chop while shimmying, but it is DANGEROUS. That knife is sharp. But so are my dancing skills. Oh yeah.
Needless to say, unless you are Justin Timberlake, this is not a spectator sport, because you'll look like a bloody idiot. However, unless I'm very much mistaken you will be cooking with a big grin on your face, and I'll be blowed if that happiness doesn't transfer itself into the taste of the food. So bear that in mind the next time you're cooking. Add a little wiggle, a secret shimmy, into the mix and see if you can't taste the difference.
Happy Birthday Blue!
NB: Never dance while operating hot liquids. That's just stupid.
Thursday, 15 April 2010
52. Converse Daps
I know, everybody wears them. But everybody wears them for a reason.
This long, cold, boring, miserable winter meant that my daps were locked up in storage for much longer than usual. But I got them out last week, and have been reminded of their all-round marvellousness. They're comfy, they're still cool, they go with everything. They make your legs look as though they are only 2 inches long, it's true, but as my legs aren't much longer than that I don't let it worry me.
If I had all the money in the world I would still buy Converse daps. Honest.
This long, cold, boring, miserable winter meant that my daps were locked up in storage for much longer than usual. But I got them out last week, and have been reminded of their all-round marvellousness. They're comfy, they're still cool, they go with everything. They make your legs look as though they are only 2 inches long, it's true, but as my legs aren't much longer than that I don't let it worry me.
If I had all the money in the world I would still buy Converse daps. Honest.
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
51. Anticipation
I'm looking forward to getting into the new car.
I'm looking forward to seeing my best pal tonight.
I'm looking forward to seeing JT tomorrow night.
I'm looking forward to Blue's birthday party on Friday night, with most of her favourite humans and a dog-friendly menu.
I'm looking forward to the weekend, and some jobs in the garden.
I'm looking forward to going jogging with my brother on Monday.
I'm looking forward to seeing my pal Lizzie on Tuesday.
I'm looking forward to seeing Date Night on Thursday.
I'm looking forward to going to Ireland with the best pal for a three day 'Research Trip' on Friday.
I don't like having nothing to look forward to. Don't think that's going to be a problem for a couple of weeks...
I'm looking forward to seeing my best pal tonight.
I'm looking forward to seeing JT tomorrow night.
I'm looking forward to Blue's birthday party on Friday night, with most of her favourite humans and a dog-friendly menu.
I'm looking forward to the weekend, and some jobs in the garden.
I'm looking forward to going jogging with my brother on Monday.
I'm looking forward to seeing my pal Lizzie on Tuesday.
I'm looking forward to seeing Date Night on Thursday.
I'm looking forward to going to Ireland with the best pal for a three day 'Research Trip' on Friday.
I don't like having nothing to look forward to. Don't think that's going to be a problem for a couple of weeks...
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
50. The old Mercedes
Today we decided to send our lovely old Mercedes to the great dealership in the sky. It was about to cost more to mend than was sensible, and we had to let it go. But it's a sad day, because that car has done us proud.
It's 19 years old and it's got 155,000 miles on the clock. That's a lot of trips to Suffolk and Kent, and Primrose Hill. But it's also taken us in palatial splendour to North Norfolk, North Yorkshire, the Isle of Wight, Northern France and to the very tip of Cornwall. It has ferried us quietly and safely when we have been low and it's gone like a greased piglet when I've been cross, on my own, and amped up on Coca Cola (let's hope Herself doesn't read this or I won't be allowed to drive the new car).
It has coped with wardrobes, sofas and at one point an entire kitchen. It has coped with one small but hairy dog. It has taken a chunk out of my head, but it was my fault, and then it looked after my lovely friend who had to drive it home for me because I was talking more nonsense than usual and couldn't be trusted to drive. (Maybe it was trying to tell me something.)
It was always a great car to drive, fast and responsive but also solid and stately. Many a boy racer has pulled up beside it, given it the once over and discarded it scornfully, only to be left in its exhaust fumes on green. Ha!
It has been replaced by something almost as good. But somehow I doubt that in 10 years time when we come to give up this new car we will feel the same sorrow at the parting. This was a very special car, and we'll miss it.
It's 19 years old and it's got 155,000 miles on the clock. That's a lot of trips to Suffolk and Kent, and Primrose Hill. But it's also taken us in palatial splendour to North Norfolk, North Yorkshire, the Isle of Wight, Northern France and to the very tip of Cornwall. It has ferried us quietly and safely when we have been low and it's gone like a greased piglet when I've been cross, on my own, and amped up on Coca Cola (let's hope Herself doesn't read this or I won't be allowed to drive the new car).
It has coped with wardrobes, sofas and at one point an entire kitchen. It has coped with one small but hairy dog. It has taken a chunk out of my head, but it was my fault, and then it looked after my lovely friend who had to drive it home for me because I was talking more nonsense than usual and couldn't be trusted to drive. (Maybe it was trying to tell me something.)
It was always a great car to drive, fast and responsive but also solid and stately. Many a boy racer has pulled up beside it, given it the once over and discarded it scornfully, only to be left in its exhaust fumes on green. Ha!
It has been replaced by something almost as good. But somehow I doubt that in 10 years time when we come to give up this new car we will feel the same sorrow at the parting. This was a very special car, and we'll miss it.
Monday, 12 April 2010
49. North Yorkshire
I've been going to Sowerby and Thirsk in North Yorkshire since Adam were a lad (to borrow a marvellous local phrase). Thirsk is James Herriot's town. This weekend we did not visit the Herriot Museum as we did it last time we were up - instead we visited the beautiful spa town of Harrogate, we walked up and down what felt like a mountain, and we (or mainly I) drivelled on about the daffodils, but above all we looked about us and revelled in some of the most spectacular scenery in the British Isles.
Herself drove the car up Sutton Bank, which is a hill with a 1 in 4 gradient. You have to change gear even in a 3-litre automatic Mercedes. It's that steep. Our friend Liz can get a horse box up there but she is Proper Yorkshire and therefore redoubtable in every way. Driving up Sutton Bank is fun, but when you get to the top you can pretty much see the rest of Yorkshire, which is even better.
We visited St Gregory's Minster, which is a tiny little church dating from Saxon times, with two large Saxon mausoleums inside the church and stones dating from 750AD. We walked to a place called Hold Cauldron, which was the bottom of a steep valley lined almost entirely with ancient silver birches. In the Cauldron was an old water mill with the river still rushing through it. There was nothing else there, bar the pheasants.
North Yorkshire is a long way to go for the weekend, but to visit a dear friend with two adorable Jack Russells, eat well, drink well, walk up hill and down dale, look at the daffs, run along the beck listening to the water gurgling past, pat the neck of the sweet pony, sit in the sun, and all in the company of Herself and the Parent - in my view it's well worth the trip.
Herself drove the car up Sutton Bank, which is a hill with a 1 in 4 gradient. You have to change gear even in a 3-litre automatic Mercedes. It's that steep. Our friend Liz can get a horse box up there but she is Proper Yorkshire and therefore redoubtable in every way. Driving up Sutton Bank is fun, but when you get to the top you can pretty much see the rest of Yorkshire, which is even better.
We visited St Gregory's Minster, which is a tiny little church dating from Saxon times, with two large Saxon mausoleums inside the church and stones dating from 750AD. We walked to a place called Hold Cauldron, which was the bottom of a steep valley lined almost entirely with ancient silver birches. In the Cauldron was an old water mill with the river still rushing through it. There was nothing else there, bar the pheasants.
North Yorkshire is a long way to go for the weekend, but to visit a dear friend with two adorable Jack Russells, eat well, drink well, walk up hill and down dale, look at the daffs, run along the beck listening to the water gurgling past, pat the neck of the sweet pony, sit in the sun, and all in the company of Herself and the Parent - in my view it's well worth the trip.
Thursday, 8 April 2010
48. Growing things in the Garden
A couple of weekends ago, after many weeks of threatening but never doing, Herself and I went down the Garden Centre. We bought compost-stuff and seed-stuff and plant-stuff and a grower-thing and brought it all home to test what being able to do 9 press ups means in the real world when you have to carry all your new stuff from the car to the garden.
We chucked a load of the compost-stuff and some incredibly smelly pellets called 6X on the beds, dug it in a bit with a fork or spade, and then I planted some little plants.
Reader, they're growing!
I go out there morning and evening to check on them and water them and talk to them nicely. One plant (it's a variety of lavender, I think) has gone from being quite small to being quite large and it has TWO flowers! The eau-de-cologne mint has also gone from being small to being large and when you wuffle it with your hand it makes the air smell tangy like citrus.
I have had one definite failure and one possible failure. One of the phloxes just died, and I'm not sure if my lily-of-the-valley should be showing sprouty things yet or not so it might have died but I can't bear to dig it up to find out.
The dog likes eating the 6X so we have to keep her off the beds which is quite a job when she's hungry.
So finally I've got to the gardening age. Turns out it's fun. Turns out also that my definition of 'fun' has changed in the last decade. Oh well, I never liked cocaine that much anyway...
We chucked a load of the compost-stuff and some incredibly smelly pellets called 6X on the beds, dug it in a bit with a fork or spade, and then I planted some little plants.
Reader, they're growing!
I go out there morning and evening to check on them and water them and talk to them nicely. One plant (it's a variety of lavender, I think) has gone from being quite small to being quite large and it has TWO flowers! The eau-de-cologne mint has also gone from being small to being large and when you wuffle it with your hand it makes the air smell tangy like citrus.
I have had one definite failure and one possible failure. One of the phloxes just died, and I'm not sure if my lily-of-the-valley should be showing sprouty things yet or not so it might have died but I can't bear to dig it up to find out.
The dog likes eating the 6X so we have to keep her off the beds which is quite a job when she's hungry.
So finally I've got to the gardening age. Turns out it's fun. Turns out also that my definition of 'fun' has changed in the last decade. Oh well, I never liked cocaine that much anyway...
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
47. The Dawn Chorus
cheep cheep cheep
TWEET tweet TWEET tweet
chipchipchipchipchipchip
kAARRRKKKKkarrKKKKKkAAARRKKKKKK (think this one's got a bad throat)
swirrrrswirrrswirrrrrswirrrrr
WAAHHHHWAAHHHHHWAHwahWAHWAHWAHWAHHHHWAHHHHHH (thanks Seagulls)
From Sparrow's Fart to when the men next door, in the park and over the road start with the hammers and drills.
One little birdie thought that the entire night was the dawn - such is London's inability ever to be completely dark. Poor little thing, it was quite hoarse by the morning. I only thought about catapults once or twice.
I'm glad that I can hear a Dawn Chorus, it means that this most urban of places has room within it for Nature, despite the 100 foot crane and the skips and the scaffolding and the drills and the brick dust.
Also, it means it's Spring!
PS - I learned about the Dawn Chorus from a book. Surprise! 'Beryl's Wonderful Week' - by Madeleine Collier. Published in 1944. Loved it.
TWEET tweet TWEET tweet
chipchipchipchipchipchip
kAARRRKKKKkarrKKKKKkAAARRKKKKKK (think this one's got a bad throat)
swirrrrswirrrswirrrrrswirrrrr
WAAHHHHWAAHHHHHWAHwahWAHWAHWAHWAHHHHWAHHHHHH (thanks Seagulls)
From Sparrow's Fart to when the men next door, in the park and over the road start with the hammers and drills.
One little birdie thought that the entire night was the dawn - such is London's inability ever to be completely dark. Poor little thing, it was quite hoarse by the morning. I only thought about catapults once or twice.
I'm glad that I can hear a Dawn Chorus, it means that this most urban of places has room within it for Nature, despite the 100 foot crane and the skips and the scaffolding and the drills and the brick dust.
Also, it means it's Spring!
PS - I learned about the Dawn Chorus from a book. Surprise! 'Beryl's Wonderful Week' - by Madeleine Collier. Published in 1944. Loved it.
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
46. Random Literary Discoveries
My mother is an internationally renowned expert on the Mitford sisters (at least as far as I am concerned) and as a result I was introduced to The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate at a relatively young age. (Explains a lot.) I have also read a monstrous biography of Nancy Mitford by some shrivelled up old hack who was patently jealous. Not an easy read. Anyway, other than that my exposure to the Mitfords and their world has largely been vicariously via the parent, when she reminds me that she has the ENTIRE canon ready for my reading pleasure whenever I should wish it... (I think she sees it as some kind of inheritance.)
Also while I was growing up, a pair of rather gorgeous looking books used to tempt and haunt me in equal measure because I would long to read them and then be put off by the florid prose within. These were A Time of Gifts and Between the Woods and the Water by Patrick Leigh Fermor.
So (I'm getting there, promise) the other day round the parental gaff I spy a book by the youngest (and only remaining) Mitford sister Debo who is now 90 but still raising chickens and a force to be reckoned with. I was interested in this book because I had seen the old girl on the TV and been impressed. Got through that slight tome in a matter of minutes and went sauntering off down the bookshop in Whitstable to see if I could find something else by or about her as it seemed that sort of a weekend. Without instruction, Herself handed me a book of letters between Debo Devonshire and Patrick Leigh Fermor that not only span a 60 year friendship but also the entire middle of the last century and many of its most interesting events. Both are mad, funny, posh, but brilliant in their way and swallowing the book almost whole was great and now I'm reading his travel writing because everything literary comes full circle in the end. In my life, anyway.
I love these random literary discoveries. It was through this kind of wandering that I discovered Elizabeth Knox, Elinor Lipman, Sylvia Townsend Warner, Andrew Miller, Eudora Welty, Alan Bennett and many many others. My life so far has not included much actual wandering and perhaps I should see about changing that, (TOO BUSY READING!) but for now I'm happy roaming about the literary landscape, footloose and fancy-free. It doesn't always pay off, but when it works it is a source of immense pleasure and hence one of my precious 365.
Also while I was growing up, a pair of rather gorgeous looking books used to tempt and haunt me in equal measure because I would long to read them and then be put off by the florid prose within. These were A Time of Gifts and Between the Woods and the Water by Patrick Leigh Fermor.
So (I'm getting there, promise) the other day round the parental gaff I spy a book by the youngest (and only remaining) Mitford sister Debo who is now 90 but still raising chickens and a force to be reckoned with. I was interested in this book because I had seen the old girl on the TV and been impressed. Got through that slight tome in a matter of minutes and went sauntering off down the bookshop in Whitstable to see if I could find something else by or about her as it seemed that sort of a weekend. Without instruction, Herself handed me a book of letters between Debo Devonshire and Patrick Leigh Fermor that not only span a 60 year friendship but also the entire middle of the last century and many of its most interesting events. Both are mad, funny, posh, but brilliant in their way and swallowing the book almost whole was great and now I'm reading his travel writing because everything literary comes full circle in the end. In my life, anyway.
I love these random literary discoveries. It was through this kind of wandering that I discovered Elizabeth Knox, Elinor Lipman, Sylvia Townsend Warner, Andrew Miller, Eudora Welty, Alan Bennett and many many others. My life so far has not included much actual wandering and perhaps I should see about changing that, (TOO BUSY READING!) but for now I'm happy roaming about the literary landscape, footloose and fancy-free. It doesn't always pay off, but when it works it is a source of immense pleasure and hence one of my precious 365.
Thursday, 1 April 2010
45. Mad Men
We're halfway through Season Three and honestly we're in the Mad Men version of the doldrums. The acting is excellent, the script is excellent and it's all three leagues better than anything produced in the UK for a very long time - but still, it's a little meh. But then Joan gets on the phone to Roger to ask him to help her find a job and I find I'm holding my breath. Literally. I hold my breath for the length of the scene because it's so good and it means so much. Luckily, it wasn't a long one.
Then Don Draper leaves his girlfriend in the car while he pops into the family home. And there, of course, is Betty, ready finally to confront her husband's lies. And the look on his face is worth an Oscar right there. I'm terrified he's going to keel over and even when Betty vaguely takes pity on the poor guy I still don't like her because she's not being played to be likeable.
There are two levels of television drama in the world at this time and they are:
1) Mad Men
2) Everything else
I don't like Paul's beard, I don't like Jared Harris, I don't like not being able to decide if I want to be John Slattery or Christina Hendricks when I grow up. The rest of it fills me with hope and joy.
Then Don Draper leaves his girlfriend in the car while he pops into the family home. And there, of course, is Betty, ready finally to confront her husband's lies. And the look on his face is worth an Oscar right there. I'm terrified he's going to keel over and even when Betty vaguely takes pity on the poor guy I still don't like her because she's not being played to be likeable.
There are two levels of television drama in the world at this time and they are:
1) Mad Men
2) Everything else
I don't like Paul's beard, I don't like Jared Harris, I don't like not being able to decide if I want to be John Slattery or Christina Hendricks when I grow up. The rest of it fills me with hope and joy.
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