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.