273. Bags and Wallets

The title of this blog post alone will have been enough to make Herself and the Parent laugh - I guarantee it. They're probably thinking it's about time I confessed to this particular predilection.

I am a bagandwalletaholic. It's true. And what's peculiar is that the bags are all similar and the wallets are all similar.

I'm searching for the perfect 'one', you see.

Rucksacks, I have a few. Yes. Then again, too few to mention. What can I say? Buying bags and wallets makes me happy because I don't have to try them on. And you can have lots of them without feeling guilty.

That's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.

272. Christmas Carols

My little primary school was attached to a posh church (not physically), which explains why we had a sung eucharist every Wednesday, an annual Easter play that was epic in its ambition and portent, and spent months getting ready for Christmas.

I'm bitter about the Easter thing because I always had to be the narrator and wasn't ever allowed to be Jesus, which caused much junior teeth gnashing. I'm such a diva.

Anyway, must try to move on from these early setbacks.

The school tradition was that every Christmas the top class sang the descant. Which, you know, is the high harmony sung during some carols - Hark the Herald Angels Sing and Once in Royal David's City being notable examples. They're not complicated, but they have to be right or the whole thing descends into chaos. And it can sound wonderful. That last year was fun.

I can't sing the descant any more, because I'm now a baritone (or something scarily similar). But carols are still a great pleasure. I failed to get myself along to a carol concert this year and I regret it. Christmas wasn't the same without a blast of singing (and, possibly, God - but that's a more troubling question) and burbling along in the car is not a satisfactory alternative.

Ideally, I'd like:

A pretty church (St James', Piccadilly, is a good one)
A proper vicar (no happy clappies) but with a sense of humour
A choir (but no ruffles or rolled 'r's)
Some readings (John Julius Norwich if we're being proper, or Spike Milligan for entertainment)
All the classic carols
and
In the Bleak Midwinter - the proper version

So maybe the next few Christmases will see me go on a search for that elusive combination. I suppose I could always whistle the descant - the choir would love that...

271. New Year's Resolution

I don't usually bother with New Year's resolutions. I feel bad enough about something or other most of the time, why add fuel to the flames?

But this year I have one resolution that I am determined to keep.

This blog WILL end in 2013. 

I only have 94 entries to go! And those of you still clinging on deserve some closure. So take my hand, and over the next weeks we will walk to the edge of the page...

270. New Glasses

The most annoying thing about being a speccy four-eyes is the need every few years to have a new pair of glasses. It is also the best thing about it. (Other good things are: excellent bug defence shields in summer, my goodness Miss Jones you're beautiful, hides bags, wrinkles, hangovers)

Face furniture is a complicated and expensive business. If, like me, your glasses are on your face all the time, you want them to be both stylish and, ultimately, forgettable. If the one thing you remember about me is my glasses I really am living my life all wrong.

I found a company that was happy to send me four pairs of frames to try on at home. Herself would like a casting vote on everything in my life, but insists on approval of anything remotely sartorial. So the frames arrived, and BF was there too. And we were all a bit drunk. So they were more than usually frank and unexpurgated on which were the stylish frames and which were so AWFUL that if I DARED to buy them they would NEVER speak to me or agree to be SEEN with me EVER AGAIN.

I won't tell you if I heeded their advice, or not. I chose some new frames, and as I type they are waiting for me at home. My old glasses gave up the ghost six hours after I bought the new ones, and are being held together by sellotape and prayer.

As of tomorrow I'll have a new face. That's how it feels! For about 14 hours. Then I get my normal face back, with added benefits. And this time, I've got two different pairs to play with!

269. China tea cups

As a result of the odd dropped hint, I now have a small collection of pretty china cups and saucers. My favourite (among many favourites) is a beautiful Limoges breakfast cup, given to me by the Parent last Christmas.

Tea, even humble Yorkshire in a bag, tastes better out of a good china cup. Mugs are fine, and I'm barely scraping the surface of possible tea-based obsessions and peculiarities, but if you want a finer experience, it has to be china.

Throughout my childhood, there would be a proper 'tea' at the weekend. A big pot of tea, toast and jam and sometimes even a Madeira cake made by Dad. Eaten in front of a real fire, they were quiet, harmonious times – and Herself and I repeat the tradition as often as possible. We don't have a real fire, sadly, but the dog curls up in front of the halogen thing very happily, which looks right, at least.

This weekend we had china cups of tea, a crumpet with butter and a mince pie, because it is the season to be merry.

268. The Writer's Retreat

08:15 – The perfect time to get up. Sadly, I woke up an hour ago, but, joy of joys, I went back to sleep. The dog is curled up in the small of my back. She has most of the bed and most of the duvet. But at least I’m warm.

08:30 – Coffee. Delicious, even if I do have to make it myself. Dog’s still snoozin’ on the bed. The sky is blue, the clouds are scudding, and I sit in the warmth watching the seabirds whirling. This view is a balm to my soul, and a welcome change from magnolia office walls.

09:00 – Washed and brushed and ready to work. I’ve moved the table so it’s in front of the windows, and the laptop is primed and ready to go. There is nothing to fear in a blank sheet of (virtual) paper. Let the tapping commence!

Tapping.

13:00 – The man arrives to mend the oven. It’s nice to have another human to talk to, even if the conversation is, well, limited. When he’s gone lunch is halloumi, rocket and avocado in pitta. Slurp.

Tapping.

15:00 – I call my mother. ‘Darling, I was about to call you!’ She’s got guests coming and a trip to the theatre in store. She sounds happy and that makes me happy.

Tapping.

15:30 – Apparently there’s bad weather coming, so the Hound and I venture out. She sniffs, I trudge, we both get blown about. Only I come back with pink cheeks.

Tapping.

16:00 – It’s got dark and suddenly I’m aware of being alone. So I put a fairly new CD on the good stereo, which has got super-woofers and adjustable bass and treble and god knows what. Might as well be listening to the album for the first time. Which is amazing, and also worrying. What else have I listened to and not been able to hear?

Tapping.

16:20 – Herself emails the best news. Feel slightly weepy, but I am writing about three sisters who’ve just lost their Mum, so I’m hyper-sensitive to family business just now.

Tapping.

16:38 – Writing this. First and only bit of work avoidance all day. But it’s still writing, right? Right.

Tapping.

17:02 – Oops, a weepy bit. It’s quite hard typing with tears in your eyes – have to do a lot of dramatic blinking. I just hope if anybody ever reads this bloody book they cry here, too. 

Tapping.

17:30 – That’s quite enough of that. Do as the experts say and shut the computer while there’s still juice in the creative tank. But now it’s time to get the Spag Bol on. Decide to put a film on while I’m cooking – something Herself won’t watch. Spend a very happy 90 minutes chopping and frying in the company of Ratatouille – the ideal choice.

11.30 - Bed. That's very late for a week-night. I'm such a rebel.

Day Two promises to be similar, with slightly nicer weather, a supermarket trip and the arrival of the Queen of Herself in the evening to look forward to. If only this was my all-the-time life. If only I could find a way to make this life pay me money. Oh, wait, that’s what I’m doing…

Tapping.

267. Bicycle singing

Apparently, girls turn into their mothers. Lucky me, I say. But I have noticed the odd maternal foible creeping in already. My mother sings out loud - in the street, in a shop, round Ikea. And she gets very cross if you point out, however gently, that other people can hear her and God Mum you're so embarrassing.

I sing on my bicycle. It's partly to make the journey go faster, and partly because nobody can really hear me, and it's fun. I was singing in French last week, and that song is RUDE, but how many French people did I cycle past? Not many, I don't think.

I wonder if I have any other maternal foibles yet? Can I pick and choose? Does anybody know how this is supposed to work?