Tuesday, 15 June 2010

79. Marmite

I'm sure I must know some people who don't like Marmite, but they have never identified themselves to me. Or maybe liking Marmite is a subconscious requirement of mine when it comes to choosing friends. This is the thing about Marmite, it works on so many levels.

In French, 'marmite' is the sticky savoury stuff stuck to the bottom of the cooking pot - the stuff you scrape up with your spatula when nobody's looking and chew greedily with drops of greasy goodness on your chin. I think the English Marmite was originally the detritus from the brewing process - the left over yeast. Which makes it sound disgusting. The French get these things right.

Marmite, butter, toast. The holy trinity. The three amigos. Herself likes her Marmite spread generously, whereas (despite my lifelong addiction to salt) I prefer a meagre amount, but all the way to the corners.

Marmite and cucumber sandwiches. Marmite and lettuce sandwiches. Marmite and cream cheese on a sesame bagel. Marmite mixed with butter, spread generously on Mother's Shame, cut into quarters with the crusts cut off. I recently discovered Marmite, butter and swedish crispbreads from Ikea.

I have one further word for you: TWIGLETS. Yep, nuff said.

I don't think there has ever been a day since I left home that I haven't had a pot of Marmite somewhere about my person. It sits there, its yellow lid glowing warmly at me, waiting to adorn my toast with its salty savoury yumminess. It asks for nothing in return but that I do my best to keep crumbs and butter dollops out of the jar, and this I do with grateful thanks, and will do all my life.

Friday, 11 June 2010

78. A Foray into Poetry

I don't do poetry. It was ruined for me by school - all that Seamus Heaney and John Donne. My parent does poetry - she's proper. I tease her about it.

I do poetry secretly. I know my way round Keats, and sometimes I read Wilfred Owen for the beautiful ghastly pain of it. I can't stand Andrew Motion, but I've got time for Ms. Duffy, and Fleur Adcock is always worth reading. Then, in the way of these things, I discover a novel-length book of connected sonnets by a poet well known in the States but not here. It takes me ages to track the book down and have it sent, and longer for it to arrive. But today I sit at my desk and read and it's as if my brain is bilingual. Poetry and Prose.

It's an extraordinary book (no names. not going to tell.)

I still don't do poetry.

Shh.

Thursday, 10 June 2010

77. A Gap in the Clouds

Strange, moody weather in London this week has not helped shift the scudding grey clouds in my head. Not sleeping; drunk suddenly on three glasses of wine; sadness in other lives leaching into mine because I love them and want them to experience only happiness, never pain; unemployed and unemployable; lacking in talent and inspiration; lonely in the eyrie. It could be worse. But it could be better.

Generally I am an optimistic sort, happy to think of the glass as half-full or at least on its way to it, but every now and again the Black Dog comes for me and I have to kick hard to keep my head above water. At those times, perhaps usefully for fiction (if I'm going to try to see a silver lining) the everyday things suddenly help break the clouds...

A perfect apple. Chicken and mushroom soup (my favourite) made by Herself for lunch and dished up with sensible advice and lashings of love. The parent calls to ask herself round for a cup of tea later. Seeing the BF post the parent for photography and more sensible advice and lashings of love. A small white dog sound asleep in a big blue basket. Another writer's blog which inspires and encourages. Rimmel's Heather Shimmer lipstick (so shallow). A literal gap in the clouds, sunshine on my face. Writing a note to a friend on an old picture postcard with a fountain pen. The West Wing.

It's not a cure, but it is a big help. I'm lucky - I know the clouds will shift. In the meantime, I'll keep kicking.

Tuesday, 8 June 2010

76. A Holiday List

Not a list of holidays I would like to take, places I would like to visit, but a list of things I must remember to take with me when I go on holiday. A scrap of paper brimming with promise. Its creation yesterday meant that it is not long now before we take off for the wilds of, well, Suffolk - for a week's actual holiday. No work, just play.

So the list sits on the side of the fridge, and will be added to daily until it becomes grubby and marked with smeary fingerprints and smudged ink and inevitably we'll forget to put something vital on it, but as the list grows longer so the distance between me and my holiday grows shorter. The list is my collaborator in fun.

I think you are either a list person, or you're not. I make lists as a work-avoidance technique, or, as is more customary, because I don't want to forget something - like nail varnish, or, more importantly, nail varnish remover. My bathroom cupboard is full of small pots of nail varnish remover bought from chemists in unlikely places - so the lists are clearly fulfilling a vital function, and I really should pay more attention to them.

I'm wondering now if I could make lists for serious things, like career goals or books I tell people I've read but haven't really. But that starts to look uneasily like a five-year plan, and they are the work of the devil. I haven't got a plan for this week, let alone any further along the line. I'd only lose the plan and forget to finish my novel, or take the Trans-Siberian express, or own a 1964 Porsche Speedster, or teach a dog to run alongside me for five miles... It would be a shame not to do those things because I'd lost the list, so I'll continue to make lists for holidays, and nothing else.

Friday, 4 June 2010

75. The iPhone

I wasn't going to. In fact, I had promised myself I wouldn't. But it would be wrong not to, because I do love it.

It is aesthetically pleasing. It is easy to use. It enables me to pick up my emails wherever I am, obviously, which is more important for people who actually have jobs but is useful nonetheless. I like the ringtones: Herself quacks, the parent ding dongs like church bells on Sunday. Harbour Master and Flight Control are addictive, but not more so than Solitaire. I've got Sherlock Holmes novels ready for if I get stuck on a train or something. I can look at YouTube, download songs, do whatever the hell I like.

I don't use it as an iPod, I have an iPod for that. Two, in fact.

I don't use it as a SatNav, I have a map and a brain for that.

I'm sure I don't and will never exercise even 2% of its capabilities but it has enhanced my life, and I love it.

Thursday, 3 June 2010

74. Being the Middle One

It has been brought, gently and lovingly, to my attention, that this blog is in danger of becoming bloring. Too much running, apparently. Fair enough, I say. I will try not to let my obsessions get in the way of a good blead.

Which brings me to today's post, and no running in sight...

The only photo of my father's five children all together was taken in Edinburgh in (I think) 2004, when we all spent the weekend together. We are sitting, in age order from right to left, on a park bench. And there, sadly in black and white or it would be obvious, are five pairs of EXACTLY the same eyes. Otherwise, we're all different. The oldest two are tall and slim and fair (ish) and the youngest two are tall and sturdy and dark. Plus the one in the middle equals five. We all look quite different, and we're obviously individuals, formed out of different sets of DNA and life's experiences... But there they are, the father's eyes - same colour, same shape, same naughty glint.

Most of the time, I'm the eldest/oldest/eldest/oldest. But every now and again I get to be the middle one, which is rather interesting. I have a big sister who's funny and bossy and eccentric so I get to experience what all three of my brothers have grown up with, but I also have a big brother, which turns out to be extremely pleasant. I think he wishes I would wear skirts more, but I don't think he's seen my legs. Anyway...

If the glass is half empty, or half full, depending on the spin you put on it, I reckon as far as my siblings go I get the best of both worlds. Which, as you will by now know, is EXACTLY how I like it, and how it was meant to be.

And now I'm going to the pub.

Wednesday, 2 June 2010

73. Running in the Rain

I mean it. I had so much fun! Splish! Splosh! Just me and the other nutters, or joggers, as we like to call ourselves. The park was deserted, so I didn't have to do any dog-dodging, the rain kept me cool and my new 90s playlist is fab. Herself stared at me in bemusement when I re-appeared at the front door, dripping and grinning - but she should be used to it by now. The dog was clearly disgusted.

I suppose, in England, that it could be quite useful to have something to do when it rains, but I think that going out in the rain moves me one step closer to being allowed to call myself a 'runner'. This is like being given a green beret - it's a badge of honour. I haven't earned it yet. But I will. Oh yes. I will.

Tuesday, 1 June 2010

72. Serious Rain

I was just sitting here, looking out of the window, trying to think of today's blog subject, when it began to rain serious rain. And I smiled. Not because I am the devil incarnate (though my brothers beg to differ) and I enjoy the thought of all those commuters getting drenched on their way home, but because serious rain is so much better than drizzle, or worse, the threat of drizzle.

I like climatic absolutes, I've decided. When hot the sky must be azure and cloudless, when cold it must be azure and cloudless unless its foggy, when wet it must be soaking, when dry it should not threaten. So no clouds. I clearly need to emigrate. Sorry Mum.

I was going to go running in the drizzle, but I am dissuaded by the serious rain. Wimp. If it lets up a bit I will go and try out my new 90s pop-classics playlist. If it doesn't (and it seems intent for now) I will do the only thing the weather demands - curl up on the sofa with a book.