222. The Prisoner of Zenda

Do children read The Prisoner of Zenda any more? If not, why not? It's GREAT!

A year or so ago I decided that I didn't want to read (or re-read) any of the books at the beach, so I took myself to the little bookshop in Whitstable for a peruse. And there, sitting on a shelf, with a rather natty red livery, was The Prisoner of Zenda. My original copy is a paperback Puffin Classic, well thumbed and covered in food and hot chocolate stains. I am a neater reader now, if nothing else.

This is the basic story. Rudolf Rassendyll, rich young layabout, takes himself off to Ruritania for a holiday. While there, he happens upon the man who is about to be crowned King (as you do) and AMAZING! they could be twins. They have a great meal and lots of wine and in the morning the King is gone! Shock, horror, but he's meant to be crowned today and if he's not his evil half-brother Black Michael will usurp the throne and darkness will descend.

So Rudolf shaves off his beard and is crowned in the King's place. Michael, who has of course kidnapped the King, is not happy. Chuck in a beautiful Princess, a dastardly blackguard, two faithful helpers, lots of gun and sword battles and an utterly FANTABULOUS denouement and you have one of the best action stories ever ever ever.

This is probably why there have been two movies - with Douglas Fairbanks in one, and Stewart Granger in the other. It's hard to say which is the better, but Deborah Kerr plays the Princess in the latter and my feelings for Deborah Kerr are well known, so...

Anthony Hope (Sir Anthony Hope Hawkins to you) was a bit of a Stella Gibbons - he wrote lots of books but is most famous for one overwhelming stroke of genius.

Don't sit about this Christmas waiting for the tellybox to provide entertainment and excitement, pick up a copy of The Prisoner of Zenda and immerse yourself in the most buckling swash of all time.

221. The End is Nigh

At 5.30 this evening I will be FREE! freefreefree!

I'm going to get my thatch made into something bearable, so that Herself stops looking at me strangely. Poor woman, she puts up with enough, without me turning into some kind of neanderthal woman - rubbish hair, rubbish eyebrows, strange skin. Got to GET IT TOGETHER. Take a leaf out of my dear departed Granny's book.
I'm going to bake a Santiago Tart. Apparently you have to GRATE the pastry. Should be interesting.
I'm going to make the Christmas gravy. Chicken wings. That's all I'm saying.
I discovered that some little stocking gifts I bought were not fit for purpose, so I have to do some extra shopping.
I'm going to make the Hound some festive neck-wear, so she feels involved.
I'm going to make cheese palmiers and that scrummy cheesey dip with the caraway seeds.
I'm going to enjoy Christmas.
And then I'm going to Suffolk, where I will write, run and relax.

FREEDOM! I won't let you down.

220. One for you, One for me

Westfield shopping centre, London. 09.20 hours, Thursday 15th December 2011.

It's just me, the cleaners and the security guards. I dredge the recesses of my memory for the location of the wonderfully huge branch of UniQlo I plundered so successfully last year, and am literally the first person in the shop. And this is how it went:

"Tights for her, t-shirt for me. T-shirt for him, cashmere cardigan for me. Gloves for him, another T-shirt for me. Ooh, this is fun. This is what Christmas should be about! Shirt for her, thermal leggings for me..."

I continued this excellent policy for much of the rest of the day, and got home with an empty bank account and a smile on my face. I can highly recommend it. After all, you know as well as I do that at least 65% of your Christmas presents are going to be dull, tacky, useless or all three, so why not avoid disappointment by treating yourself to something you know you'll really like? One for you, one for me.

219. A Sneaky Morning Off

The suits haven't come to brief me, so I've had the morning off. Shhh. It's great when that happens, particularly when I've been working hard and am a bit grumpy. I catch up on all the blogs and other e-phemera I like reading, whizz around the internet following various unconnected trains of thought and usually spend at least £15 on books and music.

Then I catch up on my own blog (hence three entries in ten minutes) and enjoy the feeling of rolling that little ball of guilt off my shoulders.

Today I have also had a couple of good ideas for my Christmas present shopping trip tomorrow.

I should go and offer my services to the general writing pool - and maybe I will. In a minute...

218. Christmas Movies

Now, we all know that I've got rubbish taste in everything but books, birds and bowwows, and that extends to Christmas movies, too. I've been making a list of the films I've got to watch in the next three weeks or miss my annual chance, and they are:

1) Love, Actually
2) Elf
3) Santa Claus - the Movie
4) Miracle on 34th Street (the modern one)
5) Scrooge (with Alastair Sim)
6) "Merry Christmas you old Building and Loan"
7) Great Expectations (the David Lean one)

But there's reading to be done, too. Christmas is when the best writing for children really comes into its own, so this time every year I have to read John Masefield's The Box of Delights and Susan Cooper's The Dark is Rising (see previous blog post).

Ooh, fun! I'm excited now...

217. Christmas Quality Street

Before you get excited, there isn't a special variety of Quality Street for Christmas. Sorry for any confusion. I am referring to the tin of Quality Street that we buy at Christmas because it's the only time in the year that Herself allows such edible indulgence.

I bought our tin last Saturday, the same day the tree went up. And those two events in conjunction made me feel Christmassy for the first time this year. It's partly because Herself loves the tree thing so much. I was allowed to carry the tree up the stairs, and hold it while she put up its stand. I was allowed to help with the lights , and I put a few baubles on too. Then the little face was too much so she took over and moved all my baubles. But I don't mind. She has made our pikey little £15 tree from Faversham look really pretty.

Last night Herself was out, so I put on the Christmas tree lights, arranged the woollen rug over my ancient knees, tucked the dog into one side and the Quality Street into the other, and put on The Vicar of Dibley from my Complete Collection on DVD. Bliss.

216. The Pursuit of Love

A friend asked me to name my favourite book yesterday. I blinked. So she relented and asked me for my three favourite books. I"ve been thinking about it, but I'm not ready to commit yet.

One of the contenders, however, has to be The Pursuit of Love. Nancy Mitford has been described as 'literary Marmite' - a sobriquet I repeat here only to hint at the unbreachable gap between likers and haters. But I am my mother's only daughter, so I am a Liker with a big 'L'. I think if I had not been a liker the unbreachable gap would have been between me and my mother. Perish the thought.

I think I was 15 or so when I first read The Pursuit of Love and although I thought it was very funny I missed the point of most of the second half of the novel. When I re-read it now, however, I can see the darkness, as well as the light. But the early part of the story, when the children are young, is still my favourite. Some of the best jokes I have ever read cluster together in the pages of The Pursuit of Love. But its reach extends further than that...

I was thinking about William Fiennes the other day - another writer I like very much. His father is Lord Saye and Sele, and I was pondering if that made William an Hon. 'He's a triffic Hon' I said to myself, without pause.

I'm a sad geek - we all know that - but it made me laugh to go from English rules of primogeniture to the young Radletts clustered in the Hons cupboard. My walk through the cemetery is enlivened by these things.

Whether you like her, or loathe her, Nancy was an admirably good writer. The characters come up off the page in a way that makes me want to spit with jealousy, but the novels are tightly plotted too - nothing is wasted. Those who dismiss her writing as posh froth aren't paying attention.

So I'm struggling on with my 'Top Three' and it may well be that The Pursuit of Love will make the cut. In the meantime, I am enjoying what I consider to be essential research - a few evenings spent in the company of Nancy Mitford and her world.

215. This picture

It's the goggles. Gets me every time.

214. Properly, genuinely uncool music

One of the best bits of getting a bit older is that one can own up to all sorts of things the younger self insisted on keeping quiet. I have never been, and will never be, cool but when I was younger I liked to pay lip-service to the idea that somebody, somewhere, might think I was. (Until they got to know me, and then it would be game over.)

But I don't care about that any more. I think that exemplary grammar and usage are cool. I think that good manners and basic courtesy are cool. I think that doctors and nurses and scientists are cool - and 'reality' stars are not.

But it's still hard with music. Somehow, it's still almost impossible to admit to liking music widely deemed to be uncool. It verges on a cultural taboo. But I can't help it. So...

My name is Saltpig, and I like Coldplay.

There! I've said it. And I'm not going to delete it. I think that Yellow is still a beautiful song, I sing Viva la Vida very loudly whenever Herself will let me and Paradise gives me goosebumps.



Deal with it.

But of course Coldplay are not the only evidence of my deeply questionable taste in music. I'm going to add George Michael, Madonna and Kosheen to my list. I'm going to say that Elton John is a freakin' genius. Massive Attack are great. Phil Collins knows his way round a drum set. But there's one last that you might find it difficult to hear. I'll whisper it. Come closer. Ready?

Westlife.

Don't. I know.

Anyway, I've confessed now and I feel better for it. There should be no secrets between us.

213. Crunchy Nut Cornflakes

When I was 11, I was allowed to visit Auntie by myself. I was put on the coach at Victoria and when the door opened in Norwich there she'd be, beaming, arms wide. A couple of years later I graduated to the train - and there she was on the platform, beaming, arms wide. We'd get in her little car and go back to the cottage to see Percy the cat and all the Dorises (all her hens were called Doris. Saves time.) We'd go for walks, eat delicious food, and go to the pub with her naughty friends. Need I add that these trips were pretty much the thing I loved most in all the world? Didn't think so...

Having once expressed a preference, every time I visited Auntie would have bought a box of Kellogg's Crunchy Nut Cornflakes, just for me. Always. Without fail.

She paid for me to have my ears pierced, against the strictest maternal prohibition ever issued. She gave excellent advice on a range of issues and told funny jokes I could never remember. She read books, drank red wine, let me stay up late. She helped me pass my driving test.

Over all the years of my life, through teenage years and tragedy, through university and first jobs, and through all of her own trials and tribulations she has been there, with a box of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes somewhere nearby.

Aunts like this should be government issue; everyone should have one. And, greedy girl that I am, I have two. And no, I won't share. I still love Crunchy Nut Cornflakes, though, so you can have some of those, if you like...

212. Saturday afternoons in winter

The marketing is done, and the proceeds put away. The chores are done, and the dog has had a walk. Herself is on the sofa, reading the more obscure parts of the newspaper. This weekend, the Parent was on the red chair, reading bits of the paper that made her laugh. The Hound was on the sofa, on a blanket, reading the inside of her eyelids.

I'm ready to start cooking. It's all planned and I've worked out the timings in my head. So for now I'm reading Penelope Fitzgerald's sweet, funny letters, and waiting for 6pm when the sun will go over the yard-arm and I can have a glass of wine and a crisp.

Outside, the tide is receding. Gulls scream and wheel, curlews burble and whirr. The sky is pinked and hazy.

Inside it is quiet, but for the odd giggle from me or the Parent, and the dog's snoring. Soon we will stir ourselves once more, for dinner and chatter and a film. But for now we are quiet, separate, together.

211. Roast Chicken and all the trimmings

A couple of Fridays ago it was my great pleasure to have around my kitchen table a number of people whom I love dearly, who needed the kind of TLC that comes out of a hot oven.

There is only one choice at times like that - roast chicken. Plus roast potatoes, something green and crunchy, bread sauce and gravy.

And if the chicken has had a good life, and if you roast it so that it's almost falling off the bone but is still tender, and if you parboil the potatoes and roast them in very hot fat so that they're fluffy on the inside and caramelly-crunchy on the outside, and if you mix spring greens and green beans and dot them with butter, and if you make the bread sauce quite soft and heady with bay, and if the gravy is deep and hot and plentiful - then silence will reign for a moment, and you'll know that your task is complete.

Roast chicken is love on a plate. Which is why you'll never find anybody who doesn't like it. It is also why it is unacceptable to do it badly. Luckily, however, practice makes perfect...

210. 'Night by Night' - Chromeo

It is literally impossible for me to listen to this and sit still. It's everything that was fantastic about 80s synthesizer pop, with added noughties naughtiness. The video is fun, too.

Turn it up LOUD, and shake your booty.

Happy Friday.

209. A Savoury Treat

This weekend I will be making Simon Hopkinson's Parmesan Biscuits. He won't mind. And thinking about making Parmesan Biscuits has reminded me of the infinite pleasure in a savoury treat. I don't mean crisps or Twiglets, though they are both savoury and pleasurable, I mean the home-made treat. A couple of weekends ago I made mini pigs in blankets, with a mustardy yogurty sauce. It's Nigella's. Delicious. Herself and I ate the whole lot.

Cheese straws, little sausage rolls, home-made flatbread with home-made hummus, toasted almonds tossed with chilli flakes and sea salt - I'm sure there are many others I have forgotten, but I'm so busy dreaming about Parmesan Biscuits I'm finding it hard to concentrate...

208. 'I Capture the Castle' by Dodie Smith

Back to books. Back to basics.

Yes, Dodie Smith wrote '101 Dalmatians'. So she is responsible for Pongo (named after her own dog), Perdita, Cruella De Vil, and the Midnight Bark. She is also responsible for this:

'I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.'

Sigh.

So we already know that we are forever in her debt. But then we get to read the rest of 'I Capture the Castle' and it just gets better.

Anyone who has ever been seventeen, ever been lonely, ever been filled with that mixture of anticipation and anxiety that precedes adulthood (and in some cases continues well into it), should read this book.

It was written in 1949, so it isn't modern. It hasn't got any technology in it, and you will not find the word 'digital' within its pages. She probably wrote it by hand, and then typed it on a typewriter while wearing a twinset and pearls. Then she probably had a cigarette and a martini before changing for supper.

I wonder if she had any idea that 62 years after she wrote it, her book would still be making people happy. Hope so.

207. Coleslaw

Or cold slaw, as Herself calls it.

One small white cabbage and four carrots will make you enough coleslaw for the entire post-Christmas period. I think you're supposed to wring the cabbage in muslin or something, to make it give up its water, but I like my coleslaw on the sloppy side, so I won't be doing that.

I do not add onion. I know, controversial. But Herself says that raw onion repeats on her and, frankly, I'd rather not live with a burpy onion-breather.

So you just grate your two main ingredients. Add mayo, some plain yogurt (if you want to be fancy) and some S and P. Mix. Leave to amalgamate and improve.

Serve with baked potatoes and leftover roast turkey/ham/beef/chicken. Slurp.

206. A Shelf of Books

In moments of genuine distress I look for a cuddle from somebody I love who loves me. This, I believe, is what everybody does who is lucky enough to love and be loved. It's certainly why we should all have a pet.

But the unanimity of our response ends when it comes to gentler moments of sadness or doubt. Some people drink. Others eat chocolate, bake cakes, pick fights, take vigorous exercise... You get the picture.

I stand in front of bookshelves and look at the books.

What do you do?

You can lose yourself in a bookshelf. And there, standing proudly or slumped disconsolately, are some potential sources of solace. So there is the peace of looking, and the potential peace of discovery.

(I loved being a bookseller, as you can imagine. Loved it. Would still be doing it were it not for the third-world wages and the customers.)

Today I took myself off to the second-hand bookshops on King Street and spent half an hour standing in front of bookshelves. I bought three books and returned to my desk a calmer person. This strange emotional dependence is only one of the reasons why I am against the closure of libraries and the rise of e-books. Also, bookshops smell nice.

205. Johnson's Spot Gel

I'm having a spotty time of it at the moment. There's a lot going on and most of it is sad or stressful or both, but you have to understand that I don't really get spots. I will allow all the other encroaching signs of age: grey hair, thickening middle, uncontrollable grouchiness, intolerable 'Iknowbetternyou'ness, but I will not have spots on my face. It's too much.

Anyway, of course I do get spots every now and again. I am only human, after all. But some years ago The Artist told me about Johnson's spot gel and I am now evangelical about it. It's not expensive, you don't need too much of it and it only stings a little bit. I'm using a tube of it a day on my face at the moment and it's doing a very good job. I had to wear my specs out with my mother the other day (which I don't normally do in case she takes them off my face so I can't see and then expects me to get the right bus home, like she did when I was a teenager) but that spot was enough to frighten small children, and the glasses covered it. Two days later, the spot gel has got it on the run.

Alternatively, you can use toothpaste. I'll leave it up to you.

204. Fran Lebowitz

On the effect of the smoking ban on New York's cultural life:

I said directly to Michael Bloomberg, “You know what sitting around in bars and restaurants, talking and smoking and drinking, is called, Mike?” He said, “What?” I said, “It’s called the history of art.”


On being a writer:

I never wanted to be anything else. Well, if there had been a job of being a reader, I would have taken that, because I love to read and I don’t love to write. That would be blissful. Sometimes you meet people who really enjoy their work. Those are the people I am most envious of, no matter what their work is.

On not writing:

When I started getting real work done, I realized how much easier it is to write than not to write. Not writing is probably the most exhausting profession I’ve ever encountered. It takes it out of you. It’s very psychically wearing not to write—I mean if you’re supposed to be writing.

On funny writing:

I learned tricks, but being funny is like being tall. That is surely a thing that can’t be taught or learned. Either you’re funny or you’re not funny. You either see things in a funny way or you don’t. It’s a reflex action with me or anyone I’ve ever known who’s funny—whether funny conversationalists, stand-up comics, or funny writers. It’s a reflex, the way things strike you. Being funny in writing, especially in the essay form, which is so distilled, I learned certain tricks. I don’t think they would be of real value to anyone else.

Several years ago, someone asked me to talk to a class at Yale—a humor-writing class. To me this was the joke. Really, why not have a class on how to have blue eyes? If I was a parent and I found out that my child, on whom I was spending eight billion dollars a year sending to Yale, was taking a humor-writing class, I would be furious. I can’t imagine a more fraudulent activity than teaching a humor-writing class. Certainly those people should be in jail. I would like to arrest them personally.


When I have dinner with Nora and Alan we're going to invite Fran.

203. Musical Theatre

My friend JT took me to see the musical Crazy For You at the Novello Theatre last night. We had the best seats in the house, which always helps, but you'd have to be in a sorry state not to enjoy the show, which is both insane (because the story makes no sense, really) and wonderful (Gershwin tunes, excellent singing and dancing, excellent sets, lots of laughs). We had a ball. And suddenly a sad and difficult week felt a little lighter on my shoulders...

I had to see Mary Poppins twice (and would have seen it many many more times had it not been prohibitively expensive). I will have to see Priscilla again before it comes off in January. I have a famous, and – for some – worrying, fondness for Rocky Horror. La Cage aux Folles made me happy even though I'd been made redundant earlier that day.

I could go on.

I am clearly a gay man trapped in a rather gorgeously curvaceous girl's body.

Lucky me.

202. Toast

I can, very easily, eat toast for my breakfast seven days a week. But that's not what surprises me. The surprise is that I don't get bored.

Why is that? Is it because I can have a different spread on my toast every day? Or is it just that two pieces of wholemeal toast, with butter and marmalade/Marmite/peanut butter/blackcurrant jam, is, in fact, the perfect food?

Sometimes, as I make my way to work, I contemplate having a different breakfast. I could stop and buy a croissant. I could have a bacon or sausage sandwich at work, or scrambled eggs, or cereal. I could have fruit salad. But I never want those things. I think about two pieces of toast and I know it will make me happy, and keep me filled up til lunchtime.

And then there's the power of toast at other times of day. What about baked beans on toast when it's late and there's nothing else to eat? What about toast with a bowl of soup when it's cold? What about toast when you can't face real food, and just need something in your tummy? It's medicine. It's therapy. And it's just hot bread.

201. GMB

So many memories of my uncle George make me smile. But as the days pass I realise that, funny as he undoubtedly was, it is his kindness and wisdom that I keep in my heart.

I've been thinking about all the time I spent with him over the years. He was the writer and star of a major TV show, and must have been both distracted and tired. But he always welcomed me with literally open arms, and looked after me as assiduously as if he had nothing better to do.

Those days with George were a source of real happiness. He had a special talent for making a person feel many times greater than the sum of their parts. He had a smile for anybody and everybody, but he only actually TWINKLED if he thought you were fab. Plus, he thought that each member of his family had the capacity to achieve whatever they wanted, provided they were willing to work for it. So he taught me to screw up the paper and stamp on it, or throw the book across the room and in doing so remember who is in control. Not the material - the writer.

Many many memories, most of them good. But it only took one moment to bind me to him forever...

It's the day of my father's funeral. George comes to the house before the ceremony - I don't think we could have kept him away. He takes me through my reading, helping me find the right pauses and rhythm. He reminds me to breathe. He's gentle, kind, but clear. He knows that too many squeezes and twinkles will prompt tears, and they are not useful at this moment. We have to get through it.

At the doors of the church. I must have been rather pale. My mother has three children - and the small one was really only tiny – but only two hands. She takes the two boys in with her. And the moment has come. I've got to go in there. It's really happening. Without pause George takes my hand in his large, warm one. 'You come in with me, Georgie.' he says. 'We can do it together.'

He never really let go of my hand after that, or I his.

GMB. 1931-2011.
RIP

200. Red Shoes

(200!)

My mother has always been very brave about having a resolutely un-girly-girly daughter. She gave up her dream of having a sweet little girl she could put in pretty dresses and nice shoes when I was about four, I think, and then again when the third baby turned out a boy.

But there were a couple of years when I was too small to protest, so there are pictures of me with a bald head and sticky-out ears, dressed in exquisite little garments - and red shoes. And now, over thirty years later, I still have sticky-out ears - and red shoes.

(There are also pictures of me with curls, sticky-out ears, a pot belly, not much else - and red shoes. These were taken slightly later, when I had learned how to take the exquisite little garments off. No flies on me.)

Anyway. My little brain saw the red shoes, saw that they were good, and that was it - a preference was born. My mother does not wear red shoes, I notice. I'm just glad she chose red, and not black patent.
Can you imagine?

199. My Grandmother's Ring

I miss my Granny very much. I always knew I would but there is little comfort in being right, in this instance.

(Pause to swallow lump.)

But I carry her with me, because I wear her ring. It isn't the original, the one my grandfather put on her finger on VJ day, because she threw that away with some potato peelings sometime in the mid-50s. But the replacement is now over 60 years old. It is plain and gold and becoming thin in places - the hallmarks appearing on the outside as well as the inside.

It only fits well on one finger - so I wear my grandmother's ring on the same finger she wore it on, together with the ring Herself gave me. And very well they look, too. I never take them off and never will. Granny's ring reminds me of her, and of her long happy marriage. And those moments of remembering make me happy.

198. Enough, already.

I want to make a public apology to all those people who read this blog regularly. I don't know who you are, or even if you're really there at all, but if you're reading - I'm sorry.

Why?

Because all the endless plangent bleating about whether or not I'll make it as a writer is nauseating and must drive you crazy. It's been driving me crazy.

So, my beloved bleaders, we're moving on from doubt and deprecation. We're going to try hard work, and hope, and see how we go.

Writing a book isn't easy. But nobody's forcing me to do it. Only I can decide if I'm going to put in the effort to write a story compelling enough for somebody to want to publish it - so in that respect alone there is no lottery. It's down to hard work, talent and luck – like everything else.

There are legions of talented writers who don't get published and I may yet join their numbers. But all I can do is my best.

So I hope you'll come along for the ride. No more bleating. Hear me roar.

197. Packed Lunch

In the much-missed old days of early freelancing, when work was plentiful, me and Mr Farringer used to meet once a week in the French House for lunch. And very civilized it was too.

But those days are gone, and tho' Hammersmith is replete with sandwich vendors and we even have a sort-of canteen in the building, more often than not I bring my own lunch. And, because I'm a saddo, I bought myself a really lovely food flask the other day, to transport the lunch in.

Today's feast was leftover green curry. None the worse for a night in the fridge and a blast in the microwave. This week I have had two soups, a leftover lasagne and one (bought) salad. Guess which was the only disappointment.

Packed lunch saves money, and it tastes nicer than most fridge-cold sandwiches or wilted salads you can buy. And now I have a lovely flask. Which cost money... But which will soon be recouped.

(A friend's father took his lunch in to work every day of his working life. After he retired he worked out that he had saved himself something like £30,000. Think on that, next time you're in the queue at Pret...)

196. The proof that Talent Will Out

Many years ago I worked in a big central London bookshop. I needed that job and for a while I was very happy. It helped that there was an extraordinary bunch of people working there, and I made some friends that I'm very glad still to have.

One of the loveliest booksellers, P, made sure that I knew where the canteen was, and the loos, and taught me, gently and patiently, to use the till and work the stock computer. He shared his lunch breaks with me and generally took excellent care of me. He made going to work a pleasure. And as he was a great bookseller he was a good example, too.

He's a modest man, but we all knew that in his spare time, P was an illustrator and graphic artist. He put up with the low pay and odd hours of bookselling because it gave him time to sit at his board. Many booksellers are aspiring writers or artists - of one sort or another - and who knows how many of them are genuinely talented, but my instinct was that P probably was. I hoped so, because it mattered to him that one day he'd establish himself, and his 'real' life would begin.

His hard work paid off. And it turns out he's very talented indeed, and now in huge demand. His success makes me happy, because he deserves it. And, more selfishly, it makes me happy because P's story is proof that all the effort and doubt might just be worth it after all.

195. North Norfolk

If, like me, you prefer lots of sky to lots of rolling hills and chocolate box houses, then you might like North Norfolk. It isn't flat, it's divine. The beach at Holkham (in the picture) takes the idea of 'big sky' country to something approaching maximum intensity. And often it's just me and Herself, thousands of geese, hundreds of sea birds, and the odd jet from RAF Marham. Dogs can't believe their luck, on Holkham beach.

And because it's Norfolk, there's a lovely pub nearby, with a lovely person in it serving lovely Adnams ales and lovely fresh crab sandwiches. God's own county, indeed.

194. An English Eccentric

Coming to the end of our daily walk in Suffolk, a tall, blonde figure leaps from a tiny white car and asks if we have seen any black labradors on our walk.

I reply that the only labrador we saw seemed to be accompanied by a young man.

'A tall young man? Blonde?'

Yes, we replied.

The figure sags slightly. 'Oh, that's Martin from the boatyard, and Codeine.'

On closer inspection, the figure is a woman in her mid-fifties. She's very lean and topped with a thatch of hair that is probably expensively cut and dyed. She's wearing a jumble sale T-shirt, a pair of multi-coloured shortish shorts and the inevitable beaten up docksiders in a range of colours.

Most curiously of all, she has several thousands of pounds worth of gold strung about her person. But she seems very nice and is concerned that two black labs have gone missing in the village.

'Found one of 'em yesterday but I'm worried that the other's gorn for gud.'

Then she notices the Hound. Face lights up.

'Oh! How beautiful! Can I give him a biscuit?'

Hound then refuses biscuit (probably too tired from walk and she doesn't like being mistaken for a boy, but rude nonetheless)

Figure sags slightly. Pats Hound. 'Never mind.'

We say that the Hound is eleven years old and a bit tired. Figure perks up again. 'Oh! You've kept her beautiful! How splendid! That one's eleven too.'

Points across to the white Fiat 500 which contains (just) a Newfoundland. We know instantly that the eleven year old is the dog and not the car, as the car is older than time. (Pic above is youthful and in excellent shape compared to this specimen.) Figure sets off to get back in the car. 'She'll slobber on my neck all the way home. Always does!' she adds, cheerfully. Then tears off amid roaring of hairdryer engine.

To say that this encounter made me happy is to VASTLY underestimate it.

Next morning at 8.30 I saw her again - wearing the same outfit, only this time with socks pulled up to mid-calf - saying hello to every dog she met in the street.

Who needs a crystal ball? Also, who calls their dog 'Codeine'?

193. Home-grown apples

Our friends R and H, who moved to Suffolk full-time three years ago and show no signs of desiccating with boredom, have fruit trees in their garden. In fact, they have an orchard.

When we saw them recently they gave us sackfuls of their own home-grown apples: Egremont Russets and Lord Lambourns. Deeeelicious. They do taste different fresh from the tree, it's true. And they're not all the same size, and colour.

R and H grow all sorts of other tasties: beetroot, potatoes, carrots, onions, herbs, pears, raspberries - etc.

Herself's little face comes over all misty when she thinks about having a garden large enough for vegetable growing on this scale, so it is my duty to work very hard so that she can have one.

192. Holocene by Bon Iver

If Hammersmith is the headache, this is the painkiller, and next week will bring the cure.

191. People who comment on websites

On weekday mornings, with my coffee and toast, I read the Guardian headlines online. If an article takes my fancy I read it, and then, inevitably, the comments that follow. And that is where the wheels come off the cart.

If I think about it carefully, I would say that I probably know three or four people who might occasionally be moved to comment on a newspaper website. They are all sane and reasonable people, but they would be in the minority.

The particular psychosis/neurosis/rampant egoism of the commenter will differ depending on the subject matter of the article. Articles about books or publishing drip with the despair and disdain of a million failed writers, holed up in their grotty basement flats, hating anybody with more talent (or just luck) than they possess.

Film articles have a similar cadre of commenters, but this lot's despair and disdain is accompanied by a healthy dollop of pseudery, thanks, no doubt, to regular reading of Sight & Sound magazine.

But you never know when the real loons are going to appear. You know the ones I mean, because they exist in all walks of life. These are the people who think that nobody should ever be allowed to achieve success of any kind without IMMEDIATE and INARGUABLE reference to somebody who's done it better. They are the fun police. They are the voices inside your head wondering why you bother EVER trying to do ANYTHING.

They do a lot of sniffing.

My favourite recent comment followed the second episode of 'The Hour', which concerned itself with a FICTITIOUS newsroom's response to the REAL Suez Crisis. There was an overwhelming array of sniffy comments about historical inaccuracies but an alarming number of people chose to wonder in public why the writers didn't check their facts before the programme went to air. Anthony Eden was never the Prime Minister of this country! Get your facts straight! Outrage!

My second favourite occurred just this week, in response to the Guardian's review of the Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy film. Apparently the review contained spoilers, and an enragement of commenters let rip, until one lone voice wondered how it is possible to spoil the ending of a book that has been in constant publication FOR THIRTY FIVE YEARS. Not to mention the award-winning TV series.

But this reasonable view was ignored, of course, and they went on their merry, sniffing, outraged, hate-filled way.

Who are these people? And is this what the internet is really for?

Please leave a comment below.

PS - YES, I know it should be 'commentators' but I don't want to give them the pleasure.

190. Trashy films

I was home alone last night. All alone. No Herself, no hound. I'm happy in my own company, but the contrast is always rather startling.

So I did some jobs, spoke to the parent, had some dinner, sat down to watch TV. But it's August, so there's nothing on.

I watched Terry & June. I watched the Vicar of Dibley. And then The Wedding Singer came on. I was going to switch over and watch The Duchess, but I got hooked. Adam Sandler (in a monstrous mullet wig) and Drew Barrymore in a 1980s-set romantic comedy. The best thing about it is the sweetness of the leads and the music. Otherwise, it's all pretty formulaic. But I loved it. I've seen it before, but it was perfect for a chilly, solitary Thursday night.

I got to thinking about the secret comfort of trashy films like this one. Of course one woman's trashy film is another's masterpiece, but unless you dwell entirely in the emotional twilight of romantic comedies there is always a certain amount of conscious choice going on. I think the trick with the joy of a trashy film is to come across it by accident. In my experience, the moment you own a trashy film it stops being the same guilty pleasure.

I quite often have a trashy film guilty pleasure when Herself's away, which will come as no surprise at all to those who know her. But in a way the trashy film makes up for her absence. And maybe that's why I had a little tear in my eye at the end of The Wedding Singer. That, or I'm really losing it...

189. A de-mob feeling

It's only Thursday afternoon, but the mayhem has already begun.

In the office, the Regretsy fans have been hooting, and showing each other the best Regretsy pages.

A small group of vandals is using Steve's antique coffee grinder (attached to the side of his desk for decorative value - he's a strange boy) first to grind a red crayon, then a tea bag and now they're trying to grind a pencil. They are threatening to snort the red crayon grindings.

At home, Herself is as giddy as a schoolgirl and won't stop giggling.

We've watched the opening credits to all our favourite 80s and 90s cartoons and children's programmes.

And why?

Because at the end of tomorrow it will be Bank Holiday Weekend. That's all.
No more. No less.

Truly summer madness. And we're not even drunk.

188. The Home Allotment

When I first started visiting this house, before I was asked to occupy, Herself mainly used the little back yard as a sun trap - turning her skin up to the sun and waiting happily for a sizzle. That was before the days of the Kentish escape, when we spent all our time in London.

These days, that same back yard is transformed into an urban oasis. It's green and verdant. Her Vitus Cognitiae is the envy of all who witness it in full bloom, as it is both beautifully vigorous and architecturally elegant. She has a bad habit of moving plants around and killing them, but the real discovery has been her talent for vegetables.

Herself is not a woman to muck about growing flowers. She only quite likes being given a bunch of flowers, and if in one of my more Fotherington-Thomas moments I encourage her to come and smell a wondrous rose she looks at me witheringly and says 'hm' without moving.

But get her on to tomatoes, or, this summer, cucumbers, and her face lights up. She has the new convert's zeal and woe betide me if I forget to water the veggies if she's away. I wouldn't dare forget.

This is the second year of gluttish tomato crops. I help the process by lugging huge bags of compost from the garden centre to the car, and from the car to the garden. Then I am allowed to do any other back-breaking preparatory work. After that, I have no further purpose other than seconded waterer and, later, suitably awe-struck eater. Fine by me. I know my place.

In between times, a little bit of magic goes on. She tends to things in little pots in the window sills. Then she plants out and encourages and waters and feeds. Then, before you can think, the tomato plants are three feet tall and already growing tiny green fruit. She frets until they are visibly tall and thrusting, then assumes the smug humility of the mother of giant boys and pretty girls.

This year, she has added cucumbers to her conquests. The sight of a plant no more than four feet high, hanging low with the sheer weight of its fruit is new to me. The cucumbers Herself has grown are as long, as green and significantly more delicious than anything the supermarkets can provide. We have had at least 16 already and the plants show no sign of slowing down. It's amazing.

We also have abundant herbs, lettuces and even chillis. The beans were delicious, but they have been dismissed for not living up to Herself's now incredibly high productivity standards. I fear that one year some evil bug will take up residence and shatter her confidence but until then nothing is more fun or more satisfying than her home allotment, and she deserves all the plaudits she receives. Now. Anybody know any recipes for cucumbers...?

*with apologies for the rather...um... phallic photo.

187. The Country

Ah, the countryside. Or the seaside. Either really. Not too fussy.

Fresh air. And not just fresh - fragrant, textured, health-giving.

Trees! Grass! Hillsides! Cows! Horses! Sheeps! Gently grazing. Marshes! A hovering kestrel. Rivers and streams! No tall buildings! A country pub. A long cold walk with the sound of nothing but the wind and your thoughts in your ears. A hare!

Of course it helps that whenever I am in the country or by the sea I am not at work. I get it.

What you want, see, is the balance. The hurly-burly of the city, and the peace of the country. And when I am a successful lady novelist, I will live in the country and visit the city for fun. Like Miss Marple. But hopefully with fewer murders.

186. The City

Every now and again, and always by accident, I am reminded of the many advantages of living in a big city.

It's 10.30 at night, but I can get home because the tube's got hours to run yet. And I'm a bit drunk and hungry, but the supermarkets are open, or there's always the chippie.

On my way home from work I can get off a stop earlier and walk through some of the nation's best shopping streets. At 8pm. Still busy, shelves being restocked for the next day. I can buy a birthday present, a pair of shoes, whatever I want, really.

And that's just the convenience I happen to have noticed this week. Not to mention the galleries, museums, cinemas, theatres, casinos, parks, pool halls, brothels, torture gardens, adventure playgrounds, sports arenas, entertainment venues, dance halls, pubs, clubs, restaurants and greasy spoons that litter this fine city. I use less than 1% of it, but I'm glad it's there.

185. Thank You

There's an adorable (and very funny) children's book called 'Time Stops for No Mouse' by Michael Hoeye, which has as its protagonist a mouse called Hermux Tantamoq. And at the end of every adventure-filled day, Hermux writes the things for which he is thankful in his little mousey journal. So I tried it myself. And I can tell you that as a thing to do, it provides both comfort and perspective, and has been useful in dark times.

So here (in no particular order) is a list of the things I have been thankful for recently:

Caitlin Moran: How to Be a Woman
Two Door Cinema Club: Something Good Can Work
Andre Kertesz: Washington Square, New York
Maltesers
The Hour
The video that showed me how to tie a 1940s 'do-rag'. Finally!
Alan Bennett
Stephen Fry's brain
Getting a sloppy baby kiss from BabyBF. (Well, I think she was kissing me. She might just have been trying to put my head in her mouth, which is what she does with everything else she encounters. For the sake of argument, let's go with the former.)
My pals
Gardens of Time
Remembering that I had eaten some beetroot, and therefore was not in imminent danger of death. I'll leave you to work that one out for yourselves.

184. Nora Ephron

I think that Nora Ephron is marvellous. Even if you would rather stick hot pins in your eyes than watch 'When Harry Met Sally' ever again (me), or 'Sleepless in Seattle' more often than once every decade (me), or 'You've Got Mail' unless profoundly ill or depressed and separated from usual critical faculties (this has happened to me) - she is still marvellous. And I'll tell you why.

She wrote 'Silkwood'.

She wrote 'Heartburn'.

(That would - should - be enough for anybody, frankly, but there's more)

She made Julie & Julia which is very sweet but which also had Meryl Streep, Stanley ('Call me Stan') Tucci AND Chris Messina all in one film.

She is friends with Meryl Streep.

She is a natty deliverer of bon mots and a habitual wearer of chic all-black outfits.

She is capable of writing lines so funny and perfectly pitched that I snort in public.

She is friends with Meryl Streep.

She clearly goes to all the best parties in NYC and I bet she's a great guest.

She loves food and cooking.

She uses a Mac.

She has said that the hardest thing about writing is writing - but also that it's the best job in the world.

She is friends with Meryl Streep.

I would like to meet Nora Ephron only marginally less than I would like to meet Alan Bennett. And I don't mean to shake hands. I want dinner and then one more for the road.

Nora Ephron is marvellous. I want to be her when I grow up.

183. Feeling the fear, and doing it anyway

So regular readers will know that the new job is in Hammersmith (on the riverbank just by Hammersmith Bridge, if you fancy a visit) which is quite a way from Home, really. So I've been travelling on the Piccadilly line and trying not to mind the cost and the heat and the smell and the ENDLESS hand-chewing practised by my fellow travellers.

I have been trying to pluck up the courage (and required energy) to cycle, but I am afraid of being crushed into raspberry jam by a bus, mainly because I think if that happened Herself and the Parent would be quite upset, and I don't like upsetting them.

Whether or not cycling in London is scary is all to do with available routes. (This may be true of all cities, but I can't comment.) Cycling into the city was fine, because a)it's actually quite nearby, and b)I knew how to get round the arterial roads. But in order to get to Hammersmith without it taking a couple of days, the cyclist coming from town must take the A4 (no way in hell not never), the Fulham Road (FULL of buses and Chelsea Tractors) or the Old Brompton Road (busy, busy, busy). And, frankly, I had a failure of bravery.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday the tube was just too hot and annoying and suddenly I didn't know what my freakin' problem was. So I made sure the old bicyle was working, and set off this morning to cycle to Hammersmith. And it was fine. I only got the route wrong twice, and never disastrously, and I got to work feeling rather pleased with myself. I'm not so happy that it is now the end of the day and it's pouring with rain, but I will endure.

I felt the fear and did it anyway. A slogan not just for tossers, it seems.

182. "Lewis"

Oh, how I wish I were cool. (and you can tell that I'm uncool because I believe in the power of the subjunctive. Anyway.)

I was sitting on my tod last evening, the Hound and Herself being out, and I was flicking between 24 hours in A&E, and Lewis. 24 hours in A&E is a wonderful fly-on-the-wall documentary about King's College Hospital. Lewis is a slightly rubbish detective spin-off. I ended up sticking with Lewis.

But I'll tell you why. Because Doris, aged 92, had fallen out of bed and spent the night on the floor, because she couldn't get to the phone to summon help. She was still bright and alert, and she had a smile for all the doctors and nurses who were prodding her, even though she was clearly still a bit shocked and frightened. She was all alone. The lady consultant doctor (usually a fairly brutal breed, in my experience) was exquisitely gentle and non-patronising with Doris, as she tried to work out just how vulnerable Doris really was.
Doris had a broken hip, but she didn't moan or complain ONCE. Not like the young bloke in the bed next to hers, who'd twisted his knee. You'd think he'd impaled his scrotum on a giant metal spike, the amount of fuss he was making.

Only the fact that Doris occasionally gasped or seemed to struggle to catch her breath gave away the pain she was in. And, frankly, I wasn't woman enough to continue watching. Doris was lucky, in lots of ways, still to be living by herself at 92. And the lovely doctor was going to make sure she was OK. But it was too much. It made me too sad.

So I switched over to Lewis. Aaahhhhh. And, relax. There's old Whately, schlumping about, doing lots of eyebrow acting. There's Donkey-Angel Boy, looking ugly and gorgeous at PRECISELY the same time. There's Oxford. There's a cast of B-list English Ac-tors and a not-bad script by Alan Plater. Not real. Not hard to watch. Not likely to make me want to get on my bicycle at 10pm to find Doris and make her come and live in my basement.

So, yes, I'm the dummy. But sometimes I just CAN'T. And Lewis was created for those moments.

181. French people in London

There are lots of Frenchies in London at the moment. I'm not referring to backpacked tourists, but to those sensible French people who come to London to live and work. They are sensible because they know that the only way the French will ever positively influence our appalling habits is to live and work among us, and effect change from the inside. So they are sensible, and also cunning.

But mainly, they wear great clothes, and they are often extremely attractive and - best of all - they speak French! It's like being on St Andre des Arts without having to get on the Eurostar.

I feel a bit sorry for them, though, because where are they buying decent coffee, and apart from the French House and Beaujolais, where are they buying decent wine by the glass, and what are they doing with their leetle dogs, and where are they buying their cool and trendy clothes, and why aren't they in Paris - which is like London, only French?

So many questions.

If I could have these questions answered (to my satisfaction) I would be well on my way to forgiving London for not being Paris (or New York) - so answers on a postcard, please, to....

180. Gravy

Why would anybody - ever - refer to something as 'jus' when they could call it gravy? Jus is pointless and affected. Gravy is delicious*

*Not all gravy is delicious. Sometimes, it is grey, lumpy and tasteless. Sometimes, it is greasy and disgusting. But let's think positive.

Roast beef and yorkshire pudding, and lots of thick, rich, glossy gravy - made with beef marrow and good red wine? Yes, please.

Roast chicken with roast potatoes and salad, with lots of gelatine-rich chicken juicy gravy? Yes, please.

(It occurs to me that I might not have much for the vegetarians here. Sorry about that.)

Good sausages, mash, green beans - and salty, scented, onion gravy? Yes, please.

Thai curries are just rice, protein and vegetables covered in hot, spicy coconut milk gravy. Mmm.

And never forgetting my university staple: chips and gravy. Believe me, it works.

So don't call it jus. Gravy deserves more respect than that.

179. The Dobro

My mate Paul gave me a load of music off his computer recently, and I'm working my way slowly through it as I sit on the underground and wend my way to work. I have got a bit stuck, though, on Alison Krauss and Union Station.

I know. But what can I do? My heart is moved, so my brain must follow.

So there's Alison, who's a bit funny lookin' if you ask me but sings as clear and pure as the proverbial lark. And then there's Dan Tyminski who's a dude. Then there's a load of beardy-weirdy muso types. And then there's the dobro. The dobro, for those what don't kno, is the twangy guitar. Yes, that is a technical term. It's a sliding steel guitar or something. Whatevs, it goes great on these toons.

So on 'The Boy Who Wouldn't Hoe Corn' (a favourite) the dobro does lots of twanging over Dan singing plangently (is this possible? Ed.) about the silly boy who was too lazy to hoe his corn, got rejected by the good farmer lady next door, and ended up telling her that she'll rue the day. Rue the day, I tell you! It's a serious business, this hoeing. Fuck with it at your peril.

Twang.

You'll know the sound I mean if you have ever,
a) listened consciously to any bluegrass music, or
b) watched O Brother, Where Art Thou

If you haven't done either, then you need to do both RIGHT NOW (you'll do a while doing b in a two for one type deal) and don't speak to me until it's done.

178. Friday night

Friday evenings can be lacklustre, when you're a freelancer. But when you have a real job, they resume their status as 'most exciting evening of the week.'

Nigel Slater (apparently) has a tradition of opening a bottle of fizz when the working part of Friday is done, which I think is an excellent tradition.

So this Friday I shimmied home, and Herself drove me and the Hound to the seaside through the pouring rain. We had champagne, and amazing steak from the Ginger Pig, and salad from our own garden. And we sat and watched the weather and caught up. We always have our best chats on Friday nights, just us two. Then she had a Very Good Idea, the fruit of which can be seen here: http://castingaspersions.blogspot.com/2011/06/tinker-tailor.html very shortly...

And the weekend unfurled itself before me, as soft and welcoming as a kitten's tummy, and I felt very happy, and very lucky, and went to sleep.

177. A book on the tube

Leicester Square to Baron's Court. Piccadilly Line. Takes about 25 minutes. If you are me, and the (only literary*) child of the Parent, you can get quite a lot of reading done. This week, I have read Joshua Ferris' second novel, The Unnamed. I prefer it to his first - Then We Came to the End. I think he has the potential to be incredibly good, but what I like most about him is that he seems to know that, too. You can sense him flexing muscles, building sinew, working hard. Using each novel as an opportunity to learn, and grow, and expand. And that - for all you 25-year-old Orange Prize winners out there - is how it Fucking Should Be.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh yes, the tube.

Next, I will be reading Naomi Alderman's second novel - The Lessons. I loved her first, Disobedience, and recommended it to anyone who would listen. This is clearly a time for second novels.

But the great joy of books on the tube is that with my ipod on and a book in my hand I can pretend that I am not stuck in a human sardine tin, vulnerable to terrorism, halitosis and BO. The time flies and suddenly we emerge into the sunlight and I disembark (or alight, I suppose) and all is well.

*Please note that I do not say 'literate' here. Both my brothers can read, they just don't, much. Of course the older one doesn't read much books, but he does read much scripts. The little one is pretty and charming enough to get away with only ever reading PG Wodehouse and Len Deighton.

176. A Regular Wage

Work vs Income. The big trade-off.

It is not HUMANE to make a person sit in an open-plan office for 8 hours a day, Monday to Friday. It is only made remotely tolerable by a monthly pay cheque.

I am currently standing very still in the middle of a mental shit-storm (scuse my French) as the full remembered horror of full-time work battles with the huge relief of having some money again. I stand VERY still. I read books. I try not to get drunk (because that only makes it worse). I watch TV. I do not think about not having seen the BF Baby for weeks because I have to work and the weekends are short. I do not think about how the time I have for all those people I love most is truncated because I have to sit in an office with (perfectly nice) strangers all day.

No.

I focus on the positive. I'm not stony broke any more. We can go on holiday. I can buy shoes, books, T-shirts and DVD box sets again. I can meet my friends in real pubs, and not only Sam Smiths smegholes. I can go out to dinner. I can buy people nice presents. I can sleep through the night.

Perhaps most positive of all - I'm ready to get back to the book. It is my Obi-Wan Kenobe. It is my only hope.

But until I can raise an army to defeat the Emperor Routine and his evil henchman Darth Boredom, I will be doing it for the money.

Which makes me Han Solo.

Cool.

175. Lists - Favourite Writers

I like lists. I write quite a few of them, even if I lose or ignore the vast majority I write. I like other people's lists too, though. I like reading Herself's lists because of the exotic spelling and the written evidence of the way her funny little mind works. I like BF's lists, because they are written in such tiny writing it can take quite a long time simply to decipher them. And I am always interested in famous people's lists - particularly if they are of their favourite writers, or books. So I decided that today I would list my favourite male and female writers - in no particular order:

MALE - Top 5 (as of today, 6th June 2011)

1. Charles Dickens (Duh. Anybody who says they don't like Dickens can't read. End of.)
2. Patrick Gale (Simple, effective, the one to match. For me.)
3. A.A. Milne (He invented Pooh, Piglet, Rabbit, Eeyore, Tigger, Kanga, Roo and Owl. Now go back and imagine your childhood without him. Exactly.)
(I am finding this quite difficult. Mental strobing.)
4. Nigel Slater (Comfort reading becomes comfort food. Perfection)
5. Philip Pullman (A genius.)

FEMALE - Top 5 (as of ten minutes later, 6th June 2011)
1. Jane Austen (The Master.)
2. Elinor Lipman (Funny, perfectly observed, jealous-making.)
3. Nigella Lawson (Always herself. Erudite. Like taking a long bubble bath in good writing.)
4. Stella Gibbons (for Cold Comfort Farm alone. That's quite a novel.)
5. Susan Cooper (underrated. brilliant.)

I could go on with the girls. I could include Dorothy L Sayers, Maggie O'Farrell, Rebecca Tyrrell, Elizabeth David, Sarah Waters, Charlotte Mendelson, Mary Wesley, Donna Tartt etc etc.

Much harder with the boys. Perhaps what they say is true. Or maybe it's just that I'm a bit sleepy and I've been reading more girls than boys recently. I'm going for the latter. You can think what you like...

174. Planning a menu

This Friday, Herself's lovely parents will have been married 50 years. Which is an extraordinary achievement even before you take into consideration the personalities of the individuals involved, and those of their three daughters. (I'm kidding. Love them all as if they were my blood.)

The family have gathered in Dorset for a week of family togetherness - and the big anniversary supper on Friday is a highlight. I am head chef. I will have team of sous-chefs. But still.

So I'm planning the menu. Herself is OBSESSED with mackerel fishing, so she decided that we would be having mackerel as a first course. I had no problem with that - mackerel is sustainable, delicious and good for you. Plus kids hate it so that will piss off the middle sister fairly immediately.

She is making Gravad Max. I'm sure it will be excellent. I will be making a small amount of creamy, herby potato salad to have with it, and if I thought anybody would eat it, I'd make fresh pickled cucumber too. Stupid e-coli outbreak.

Then we're going to have butterflied leg of lamb, marinated in a mint and coriander yogurt and roasted over a tray of veg so they get all gooey and caramelised by the yummy meat juices. Mint and coriander yogurt to accompany and possibly something green and crunchy.

Then elderflower and gooseberry fool.

Then local cheeses.

Then coffee.

Then collapse with another glass of wine and let the others do the washing up.

I'm looking forward to it. I'll need to be organised, but there's not much actual cooking involved, so the timings shouldn't be too complicated.

Hopefully, it will be a beautiful early June night. And there won't be any squabbling and the kids will behave and/or go to bed early. Wish me luck!

173. A breath of fresh air

And I'm not even being metaphorical. No. For once in my smart-arsey word-driven life I am being LITERAL.

Drove to the beach on Friday evening (or rather, Herself drove) after a tiring week and an unusually busy and tiring fortnight. Stepped out onto the deck just as the sun was dipping towards the horizon, and took a deep breath. Pure deliciousness. Quite literally, a breath of fresh air.

That one lungful was just the beginning. By the time we got back to London at 7.30 on Sunday evening I was feeling all fresh and bouncy again. Not like a permanently enraged, germ-ridden commuter. Not like an ancient old crone with a reasonably demanding new job. Not like a slightly neglectful, distracted girlfriend/friend/daughter/sister.

Fresh, I tell you. With added bouncy.

So the old adage is true, it turns out. There is nothing like a breath of fresh air.

(Thanks also to: Herself, the Hound, 10 hours sleep on two consecutive nights, homemade cheeseburgers, a bacon and egg bagel, a slow walk on the seashore, Blue Valentine, sunshine and a brisk nor'easterly, Angry Birds Rio – and last, but not least, an afternoon screening of The American President.)

172. Pavlovian Reactions... or not.

So, Pavlov's dogs started drooling at suppertime, whether there was food or not. Right?

I apply hand lotion and immediately have to pee.

Is that the same thing?


I listen to the 23-year-olds at work talking 'Yeah, it's like forty quid but it's gonna be, like, awesome, and it's just like an awesome day with like loads of cool bands and it ends at ten so we could like go to the pub afterwards or something' and I immediately feel both bored and tired. Which I'm sure is the same thing.

But because I am not a dog, it occurs to me that I am both Pavlov, and his dogs. So at least I am not alone in my psychological suggestibility.

171. Frazzles

Frazzles are fake rashers of bacon, in the form of crisps. They are extremely salty, taste nothing like bacon, and are incredibly delicious. They are very good if you have a hangover...

Hangovers essentially require the liberal and regular application of carbs and sugar - which is challenging to somebody on a diet. But I have just discovered that a carton of Ribena and a packet of Frazzles pack a considerable punch above their calorific weight. It must be so nice to have a fast metabolism.

I don't know if there's anybody still out there. If you're still hanging on, thank you, and I promise to try harder. Don't give up!

170. A lunchtime stroll

Didn't leave the building yesterday, despite the fact that it was a beautiful day. Decided not to be so pathetic today and walked along the tow path. High tide in this bit of Hammersmith is really high, so suddenly the mighty Thames is lapping the shore only a few feet away and gurgling like the river in all our bucolic dreams. The ducks and coots and swans paddle serenely and even the sculls glide elegantly along.

The River Cafe, that bastion of rich glad-handing, is surprisingly meek to look at. It really does look like the works canteen of the architecture practice next door (which of course it was, originally). They have a verdant array of vegetables and herbs growing outside the back door - almost enough to mask the clinking glasses and braying voices. (I'm only jealous.)

Along a bit further, up to the road for a bit, then back to the riverbank. Some of this prize real estate isn't privately owned - London's good like that, sometimes. Washing hangs out on the line, and I can hear little children playing somewhere nearby. I've gone far enough for now, so I turn tail and head for my desk. The afternoon suddenly doesn't seem so unfriendly, and I have Spring in my step.

169. Lemons

What would I do without lemons? It's a joke in our house that whenever Herself goes to the supermarket she has to buy milk. We ALWAYS need milk, apparently. My foible is lemons.

I need lemons for all cooking. I need them for anything involving tonic or Coca-Cola and if I'm feeling toxic I need them for putting in a cup of hot water. Without lemons it is not possible to make a proper Hot Toddy - the closest thing to a cure for the common cold.

I need lemons to smell - they make me think of summer. I need lemons to provide the base note of every perfume I've ever liked. I need them to hang provocatively from trees all over Italy, just begging to be plucked and smuggled into grey old Britain.

I am going to try preserving them. I think they are probably preserving me.

168. My Own Clothes

No, I have not finally been sent to prison or an asylum and no I'm not working in a supermarket or for the Post Office, but when I did my short stint in the City and had to wear smart clobber every day I did not like it, not one little bit.

Now I have been returned to the land of the creative dept, and I'm sitting here in jeans, a T-shirt and my brand new duck-egg blue daps, I am happy. I feel like myself. Looking smart sometimes is a pleasure. Having to do it every day just to sit behind a desk is weird and pointless. A posh lawyer once described his life to me and it was a series of quadrangles - prep school, Eton, Oxford, Middle Temple, a coffin. He'll have spent all the days of his life in a suit, in a quadrangle.

But I'm happy for the city boys and the lawyers to stay in their suits, so that I can feel grateful for my freestyle clobber. It's still a suit, in its own way, but its permutations are endless.

167. The new kid in town

In three months, I have started two new jobs. The second one is permanent. It's MINE.
I have had a lot of jobs, and some things are always true:

1) You will always spend at least three weeks thinking that literally every single thing that comes out of your mouth makes you sound like a cock.

2) You will wonder if you will ever know everybody's name

3) You will wonder if you will ever make a friend in this new place

4) You will drink a lot with your pals to compensate for being a bit small and lonely at work.

I know the likely outcome to all four. Doesn't stop the old brian whirring. I am trying NOT to do too much of 4 because I am old and tired, but because I am old and experienced 1 is proving to be not too much of a problem.

One thing's for certain - before I know it I will have forgotten what it felt like to be new. Some things never change.

166. A Bacon Bagel

HERESY! I hear you cry. Yeah. Whatever.

Heretical or not, the marriage of a slightly sweet, chewy bagel (from Brick Lane, no less) and hot, salty bacon is - truly - divine. It's good at any time, but when you're slightly hungover and you're replacing fluids as quickly as you can and feeling your age, it's so good it makes you want to sob with gratitude.

Herself is a passionate supporter of a bacon bagel - I think that's where I got the habit. Not that long ago, I had a fried egg and bacon bagel. I can't really talk about it. Some things defy description...



I will be blogging more regularly from now on. I'm back. Oh yeah.

165. Vouchers

One of the few 'upsides' (and that's pushing it) of the recession, has been the proliferation of money-off vouchers. It is thanks to these that I haven't paid full price in Pizza Express for two years, and now don't go there if I haven't got a voucher. For me, the best value is the quarterly 30% off at Gap vouchers which are emailed out and go virally round London like the clap(pers).

It's a beautiful sunny day in London today, and I've done my work, so I'm going to go to Gap and buy something summery with my voucher. After all, I have got a new job to go to - and I've got to make a good impression...

164. Artichokes

Went to Rome for four days with Herself and her parents (and, for one day only, my own Parent). I haven't quite decided about Rome yet, but I have decided about one Roman speciality, and that is the artichoke, or Carciofo.

Not the Jerusalem Fartichoke, the good old globe.

They marinate it until it becomes sublimely soft and slightly vinegary and yet tastes entirely of itself. I had one that had been deep fried and it was crisp and toothsome. I had some with broad beans and some other kind of bean at a fabulous restaurant called Tullio and there was practically a fight to finish it, even though there was lots.

I thought about bringing some back, because I'm sure it's because they're Italian that they taste so good, but I was worried that I wouldn't be able to make them delicious. The Parent, however, has brought back six, (doughty and excellent Parent) so I am going to look up recipes to help her make them delicious and then casually drop by every day at about 7.30pm....


The other things that were good about Rome were: the Palazzo Doria Pamphilj, some of the churches, the taxi drivers, ALL of the food, my Parent's lovely friends, being offered a new job while having the best lunch with a large proportion of my favourite people, the orange trees growing on every corner.

163. Roast Chicken

Yesterday was Saturday. Herself and I had a good day, and this is how it went.

Coffee and papers for her. Lemon & Ginger tea and a guide to Rome for me (we're going! In a WEEK!) Croissants for both.

Walk in the park. The sun was shining and the blossom is on many of the trees. The dog was going extreeeeeeemely slowly so we sat on bench with our faces in the sun for a bit while she did her thing.

Went to the garden centre. Bought seeds and herbs in pots and lots of earth.

Ate delicious lunch.

Spent some time in the garden potting up.

Baked a lemon polenta cake.

The Parent arrived, we had roast chicken, roast potatoes and salad from the garden, followed by lemon polenta cake, creme fraiche and grapes bought by the Parent. Herself and I had some lovely red wine, the P had water. (She chooses water.) It's ALWAYS lovely to see the P. I'm biased, but she's fab.

Watched the last two episodes of Series 3 of Damages (see previous blog post).

Slept for 8 hours.

Sad and middle-aged? Maybe. But in terms of simple pleasures and battery recharging it can't be beat.

Happy Sunday.

162. Buying Shoes

Yes, I'll admit it, I love buying shoes. My work drought has recently become a flood (never rains but it pours) so today I went out and bought some lovely shoes. They're green.

Shoes are a relatively easy retail fix. You don't have to get undressed, they almost never need taking up, and if you're me, they never cost too much moolah.

But the joy they bring! I remember crashing into a lamp-post when I was a kid because I was running down the street watching my new shoes, rather than where I was going. Not much has changed in 30 years...

I'm not allowed to wear my new green shoes tomorrow, but rest assured that whatever I wear on Thursday will be to augment and display my beautiful green feet.

161. The Good Wife

The Good Wife is a soapy American series about the wife of a sleazy politician. She's had to go back to a career in the law because her husband's in jail - so the first series is all about her being a junior associate in a big Chicago law firm, and her husband's efforts to prove that he is (mainly) innocent. It's great stuff.

I asked a real lawyer if she thought the 'work' part of it had any bearing in reality and she thought it did. Which is worrying and reassuring in equal measure. The wife is played by Julianna Margulies (Nurse Hathaway in ER) and she's very good. It's slick and glossy and entirely entertaining. Series 2 is on the tellybox at the moment so if you're in (and you have More 4) check it out. You'll want some popcorn...

160. My Dog's Paws

I love my dog. Very much. But I particularly love her paws. I love it when they're all blown and hairy and look the size of dinner plates compared to the rest of her. I love watching her walk around on them, taking them for granted even though they're amazing. I love the smell of them (this may be something only other dog owners can appreciate - but I bet they all do). I love it when she lies on her side and stacks her paws up on top of each other, quite carefully - front and back.

I mainly love it when I come in from work or wherever, and she sits back and waves her front paws at me to say hello. We call it the 'two-handed wave'. It's a joy to behold.

159. Adele - Set Fire to the Rain (Live from The Tabernacle, Notting Hill)

158. French & Saunders

Have we had this conversation already? Hang on, I'd better check...

Right.



Knock knock.

Who is it?

It's me, Dawn French, your comedy partner.

Oh. You. Well I can't let you in.

Why not?

I haven't got any bones in my legs.


I didn't like the Comic Strip first time round. I don't know if I was too young, or too square, or what, but it passed me by. Because I didn't watch the Comic Strip I probably wouldn't have thought to watch their first shows on the tellybox - so I think that I first met F&S on Comic Relief. In 1985 Dawn was just cuddly, and Jennifer was a brunette. Dawn was silly and naughty and Jennifer was strict and cross. They did one early live benefit during which Jennifer got the giggles so badly at something Dawn did that they had to stop for a minute. (Tha-thoing, tha-thoing, tha-thoing)

Fast forward to 1991 or so. A dark time in the life of this blogger, but F&S were there to lighten the load a bit. By that time, Dawn was actually spherical and Jennifer was a blonde. They'd started doing their film parodies - Thelma & Louise practically made me swallow my own tongue laughing. Dawn wore a tutu and danced. Jennifer did uncanny impressions. It was all good.

But none of this gets to the heart of the matter, does it? Why do I love French and Saunders as much as I do? And the answer, I'm afraid, is: I'm not sure. I think it's chemical. They make me laugh, I suppose. They made me laugh when otherwise I was mainly crying, and I'm grateful. They told me it was OK to be a girl and be funny (or try to be funny). Sometimes, you can't explain why you love something. But love them I do. And always will.

157. Eggs Benedict

Done properly, Eggs Benedict is a joy and a delight. After all, what's not to like? Muffin? Good. Ham? Good. Poached egg? Good. Hollandaise? Good.

And if the muffin is not sweet and perfectly toasted so it's both soft and crunchy, and if the ham is slightly salty, and if the egg is firm on the outside and runny within, and if the hollandaise is rich, buttery and ever so slightly vinegary - then you have a breakfast for champions.

My current hot tip for great Eggs Benedict is at Samphire in Whitstable, but it's true that The Wolseley and The Ivy both do an excellent one. It is, of course, possible to do it at home - and it can be delicious. But for me Eggs Benedict is one of those dishes that I prefer only to eat as a treat, and if I can have a glass of wine with it, so much the better.

156. Queen Latifah

Queen Latifah should be the real Queen.

She is completely wonderful in every way and I won't hear a word against her.

She looks good (most of the time. Hey, she's a real woman)

She can sing.

She can rap (don't care too much about that, but it's important to note it.)

She can act. (She was Oscar nominated for Chicago, and Beauty Shop is well worth watching.)

She went to the Inauguration, got the chance to meet Obama, and made sure he met her Mum instead.

Feel the love for the Queen. Oh yeah.

155. Vanity Fair's 'My Stuff' column

Until fairly recently, every issue of Vanity Fair came with the 'My Stuff' column, in which a celebrity or other random famous person lists the stuff they like. This is EXACTLY the kind of info I like to know about people, so it's always quite an interesting read. To give you a flavour of it, I have copied out a fairly classic example and, for good measure, added my responses to their responses. This person is married to a famous Hollywood director and had recently published a novel.

HOME
WHERE DO YOU LIVE: New York City and Los Angeles Of course.
FAVORITE ART: A collage of 10,000 tabloid photos my husband for me for my birthday. What? Weird.
SHEETS: Archipelago Never heard of it.
COFFEE MAKER: Small French press with beans from Cafe Grumpy, in Chelsea Does she mean a cafetiere? When will Americans learn about coffee?
STATIONERY: Soolip Bless you
CAR: BMW 650 Whatevs
PETS: Two black cats, Blake and Peanut Acceptable
FAVOURITE FLOWERS: Anything by Suzane Le May Eh? has Mother Nature been fired and I didn't get the memo?
FAVOURITE GADGET: iPhone Sensible woman
FAVOURITE COCKTAIL: Bellini from Harry's Bar Ooh! I've had one of those. Still paying it off...
FAVOURITE DESSERT: Banana-Cream Pie Yuck. Also, isn't a cream pie a porn thing?

BEAUTY PRODUCTS
LIPSTICK: Mocha Fondant by Shu Uemura I've heard of him
MASCARA: Fibrewig That's stupid


Etc. Fun! Nigella Lawson's answers were interesting. They sometimes do New York City socialites and those are my favourites - because these women don't live in the real world. Anyway, "My Stuff' is a laugh.

154. Twitter

Before you get excited - I don't tweet. I am simply a Twitstalker. So today I got messages from Ellen DeGeneres, Dermot O'Leary, the writer of Grey's Anatomy, Queen Latifah (my first one from the Queen, so exciting) and Giles Coren, whose wife has just gone into labour, FYI.

If you choose your subjects carefully and remember that none of it is real, you can have a good time.

153. Owls

I have never come face to face with an owl, but I would like to. I have a general fascination with birds of prey - they're so beautiful, yet so cruel - but there is a special place in my heart for an owl.

AA Milne has a lot to answer for. The Owl in the Hundred Acre Wood was the 'clever' one; he could write - 'Backson. Bisi. Backson' is vintage Owl, and incidentally still the way I spell that note, should I need to leave one.


A few months ago, in the summer, I followed a pair of owls around my friend's woodland. I could hear but not see them. I was a bit tipsy - it was fun.

Herself looks a bit like an owl.

Would I be disappointed if I met a real owl?

152. Jeans

Much to the despair of my very elegant Parent, I wear jeans 360 days of the year. That's a shocking statistic, isn't it? I'm shocked. And it's not as if I don't own any trousers - I even have dresses and, wait for it, a couple of skirts. But I don't wear them, because why would I? I have jeans.

This debilitating reliance is, obviously, due to an absolute lack of sartorial imagination. But my reasoning is thus: If you go for solid blue, or black, and you don't allow any gee-gaws, and insist that the cuffs come down beyond your ankles, it is difficult to get jeans wrong. Most people look OK in jeans, including me. I have some which I think are probably 'good', and some which should be kept for indoors, and I have one proper designer pair which work miracles, but on a daily basis I know I look OK in my jeans. They go with everything. They're not expensive.

I'm depressing myself.

But the love affair may be facing a hiccup. I've been offered a 'proper' job - in the CITY! Which means that for the first time in my life I will not be able to wear jeans to work. A change is comin', people. And things may never be the same again...

151. Baking a Cake

So I'm sitting at my desk, and it's cold and grey, and I'm distracted because I'm having meetings for jobs which is good but also bad, so I think I'll go and bake a cake.

Despite my surname, I am not much of a baker. I can do cakes, but bread seems to be beyond me, unless I use one of those pre-mixed mixes. Which is cheating. I can do pizza dough, but that's easy.

Anyway, I remember telling the woman who interviewed me for school that I liked baking, and I remember the 'Pooh's Book of Baking' (or something similar) that I learned from. So I've been a caker for quite a while. Recently I have had some success with a lemon drizzle cake, and not long before that a gingerbread cake was incredibly delicious, but today I think is a day for either chocolate or coffee and walnut.

Baking a cake ticks two boxes: it's absorbing, creative activity, followed by cake. Coffee and walnut, I think. Mmmm.

150. Tina Fey

It's been a long time coming.

Sat down last evening to turn my CV into something more useful (a chocolate teapot?) and thought that I should enjoy myself while I worked. So I put on Season One of 30 Rock. The time flew by, of course, and I laughed a lot, and even managed to get some work done, and I was reminded of the sheer Goddessness that is Tina Fey.

Tina Fey wrote Mean Girls, which isn't to everybody's taste, but is much better than most of the other movies in that genre, and has some great jokes. Tina Fey wrote 30 Rock (most of it) and it was her idea - which alone makes her a Goddess. Tina Fey was the anchor for many years of the News section on Saturday Night Live. She was the first woman in the job and she was the Head Writer on the show - which makes her not only a Goddess but a kick-ass Goddess. Tina Fey wrote and starred in the only funny American Express ad. She won an Emmy for her impersonation of Sarah Palin on SNL. Yes, Baby Mama should have been better (but she didn't write it) and yes, Date Night could have been funnier (she didn't write it.) She's making a movie with Meryl Streep. How will I sleep until then?
She's a brunette.
She wears glasses.
QE BLOODY D.

149. Ambrosia Creamed Rice

This is a definite 'Marmite' moment. Rice pudding is one of those British gastronomic institutions that causes controversy wherever it goes. Like Gordon Ramsay, but sweeter.

I have made, and eaten, 'real' rice pudding, and it is a completely different beast. So we won't mention it again within the confines of this particular blog post.

But Ambrosia Creamed Rice, in its blue and green packaging, either in a tin or in a little yogurt pot, is nursery food of the highest order. Herself, obviously, refuses to be in the same room as a pot of Ambrosia Creamed Rice, but I buy one for myself when she is out or away, and enjoy every creamy mouthful.

148. Galaxy

When it comes to the Dairy Milk vs Galaxy debate (hotly contested in this house) I am staunchly in favour of Galaxy. I like Dairy Milk, but Galaxy is clearly so much better that it seems odd even to compare them.

Galaxy is smooth and creamy. Galaxy Cookie Crumble is smooth and creamy and occasionally a bit crunchy. Galaxy Hazelnut puts some delicious toasted hazelnuts into that smooth, creamy chocolate and we all know how good that would be. Then, as if to add insult to injury, there is Galaxy Ripple, which should be a banned substance as it is utterly addictive.

Any Dairy Milkers out there, be brave and try some Galaxy. You won't regret it, and you won't look back.

147. Carol Klein

I'm in love with Carol Klein. It's a pure, virtuous love - nothing sordid, thank you very much - but it is quite heartfelt.

For those what don't know, Carol Klein is a gardener. She's on the tellybox and in the papers and she writes books, too. If you're quite keen on these things it will interest you to know that Carol is in fact a plantswoman and that her cottage garden is also a nursery.

Whenever I try to gather myself to do some gardening Herself stares at me blankly and tells me that nothing will grow in our garden. This is patently ridiculous, but for some reason I never say 'pshaw' and shove my way past her - I think she might be telling me that the garden is her thing and I should butt out. Fair enough.

It's quite difficult to learn something you're not practising - but I've been watching darling Carol in her garden (thanks to a new series on the tellybox - Life in a Cottage Garden) and I'm picking up some tips for the day that I am allowed to get my hands dirty. And the reason that I love Carol is that she's an old-fashioned enthusiast. Her love for her garden and her role in the cycle of the garden is a shiny, palpable thing. She is enormously experienced and clearly hugely talented, but she isn't patronising (unlike most of those other Gardener's World wonks) and nor does she dumb-down - she talks and you listen and learn. She's kind of fab to look at too. She's in her mid-sixties but she's all crazy blonde highlights and her gardening jacket is an ancient leather bomber jacket. She's got more energy than I do. She bounces around talking about things in the garden she loves and it calms my soul. She represents everything that I admire: passion, enthusiasm, dedication, longevity, joy and a kind of wilful doggedness. And of course as I"m watching and listening I'm seeing such beautiful things in her Devon garden - not least of which is her Lakeland puppy. Sigh.

Anyway - with Carol in my life the cold, dark days of job-hunting and penury seem a little lighter and longer, and who knows, maybe one of these days Herself will let me loose in the garden and I'll get to see what all the fuss is about.

146. Trebor Extra Strong Mints

One of the many things that is fabulous about my Parent is that she always has a mint about her person. Most often these days she'll be packing a box of Mentals - tiny liquorice mints with the force of a nuclear blast. But for all the years of my life before she discovered Mentals, she had Trebor Extra Strong Mints and now I find that I keep them in my car and quite often in my bag.

I think that for mint connoisseurs Extra Strong Mints count as sweets, but for me they are the perfect balance between minty and sweet. They'll tidy your breath up, and give you a little sugar boost - perfect for the last few minutes before an interview or date, for example, or other nerve-racking appointment. They're what I buy in the shop if I need to break a note (how the shopkeepers of the world must love me) and Herself and I feed them to each other at regular intervals on long journeys, just as I grew up watching the Parent and the Old Man passing the mints to and fro.

So mints come full-circle, it seems. Not sure about the Mentals, but Extra Strong Mints are past, present and future.

145. Elinor Lipman

Elinor Lipman is an American novelist. She's a witty, stylish writer. Her books are light on plot, heavy on character. But it's not 'chick lit'. There are no bizarrely confident twentysomethings with glamorous jobs shagging their way to the top. There are no shark-like megalomaniacs, ditsy blondes or crumbling ancestral piles. Instead there are 'normal' people who just happen to be very funny, or going through strange times.

The key element of her writing, for me, is the lightness of touch. Her eye is remorseless in its search for telling detail, but her authorial attitude is non-judgmental. She lets actions speak for themselves. The more writing I do the more I admire her skill. So her books become both carrot and stick for the junior scribbler. My recommendations? My faves so far are 'Dearly Departed' and 'The Family Man'.

144. Scrabble on iPhone

My family are not game players. Growing up, we did not get hours of pleasure sitting around a board game or a game of cards, unless we were in the wilds of Scotland (or Ireland) and there was LITERALLY nothing else to do. Yet the Parent is now a keen Bridge player (and is teaching me and Herself), middle brother plays Poker, Herself and I play lots of Rummy and quite a lot of Trivial Pursuit and now I am addicted to Scrabble on the iPhone.

Herself is dyslexic, so Scrabble is like Chinese water torture for her, poor dear. Although she is bloomin' clever and extremely competitive so if she plays at all she's playing to win and you'd better watch out. The Artist (also bloomin' clever and 'stremely competitive) is a DEMON at Scrabble - verging on unbeatable unless you get very lucky - partly because she is very good at the tactical aspect of the game.

This, it turns out, is key. I play myself on the iPhone (the computer's too good and I get cross) and surprisingly enough the play is pretty even. But I am learning the tactics, and yesterday had my first genuine, unfaultable 90 point word. It was great. So one of these days I might slip out of my cloak of invisibility and play a real game on a real board. Wonder if I'll like it?

143. 'Cranford'

The TV series 'Cranford', from the books by Elizabeth Gaskell, is a good example of British drama at its best. It has a wonderful cast, a near flawless script, painstaking attention to detail and an alchemical spring in its step.

Also, cleverly, they didn't make enough of it.

I laugh. I cry (a lot). I sigh. I say 'Oh Miss Matty' quite frequently. Herself and I curtsey to each other and drink tea out of good china and wish we had bonnets to wear.

It takes a while to get over a Cranford viewing session - nothing else quite matches up - but while it's on the twenty-first century disappears.

142. Talent

The first escalator going down into Angel tube is a long one, so my brain had a couple of minutes to register the music. As I walked along the tunnels and hopped aboard the second escalator, and the music got louder and more miraculous, I got quite excited at the thought that somewhere ahead of me a real live person was playing his guitar and causing this amazing sound.

And there he was, hunched over, eyes closed, lost in the music. The temptation to find a quiet place to stand and just enjoy for a few minutes was strong, but I was on a deadline, so I put some money in his guitar case, beamed at him, and went to stand on the platform where, thank goodness, the music sounded at its best.

Talent. Man, what a thing that is. I know nothing about the blues, but I know that guy was good. And probably he'd worked hard to become so, but he wasn't sitting there playing Oasis covers - he was the real thing.

Then I went to Tate Modern, my head still full of talent and what that means, and I walked past Shakespeare's Globe, and the Golden Hinde, and then I looked at the Sunflower Seeds in the Turbine Hall, and I thought about Gauguin and I looked at some other paintings and then I came home and watched TV - good TV - written by my very talented friend. Then I read a rather beautiful book and almost couldn't sleep for gladness that some people in this world are talented, and that they allow the world, and me in particular, to sit for a while and listen to the music.

141. Trees

Well, here we are in 2011. Happy New Year and all that. I promise to do better with my blogging and will be aiming for a daily post, unlike Royal Mail. Ha ha.

Trees.

Easy to take for granted, aren't they? As Herself drove herself, myself and the dogself down to the Big Smoke from the Salty Place on the Sea yesterday, I found that I was suddenly very aware of the trees. The great oaks in Glemham Park, the birches along by the river, the funny little straggly ones by the side of the A12 and all the others in-between. They didn't look vulnerable, in their leafless state, they looked beautiful, standing tall and strong, showing off their glorious forms for all to see.

It's all too easy, particularly in a city, to put the trees in with the buildings and the cars and the street furniture and the people who really need your help -- and render them invisible. But the trees were here long before I was and they'll be here long after I'm gone, so maybe I should try harder to see them, and maybe in doing so I'll see other things that will gladden my heart...