Annie Loves...

E-Books

2012-01-30T07:09:00.000-08:00

I love reading books. I love having lots of bookshelves - and piles of books all over our house. I like to finish a good book and then post it to someone I like.

I hate computer screens. I have to stare at one all day - and then I often get home and stare for even longer - writing blogs, selling things on Ebay, buying last minute presents for people, booking train tickets. Computers, and the internet, make life slightly more efficient - sometimes - but there are some things that cannot be replaced by computers.

And books are one such thing.

A while back someone (who I don't even know that well) decided it would be funny to try and wind me up by banging on about how amazing the Kindle is. It worked a little bit - but it mostly reaffirmed what an idiot that person is. The only reason that person knows about Kindles is because that person loves technology. That person has probably never read a book in their life.

I am anti-Kindle simply because I like to hold a physical book in my hands when I read. Likewise - I buy a print newspaper and will only very occasionally read the Guardian online. However, I've just read another argument for print over online - written by author Jonathon Franzen for the Guardian. Read it here.

I hope that the next generation don't disregard books. It's no good expecting a computer to replace the arts.

Food

2012-01-29T11:34:00.001-08:00

The only thing hangovers are good for is increasing my appetite. This weekend has been fraught with hangovers - and the only solution has been to indulge in some delicious meals...

On Saturday afternoon, I took my sweet for lunch in Terroirs - a lovely French restaurant in Piccadilly. They serve French food tapas-style so we ordered a whole Dorset crab - served with radiccio, a wedge of lemon and lots of creamy mayonnaise - a smoked duck salad with walnuts and some fresh bread and butter. A glass of Prosecco and then a carafe of Sauvignon to wash it down.

On Saturday night we went to Season, a new restaurant in Finsbury Park, to celebrate my mum's birthday. The mackerel starter Rich and I shared was scrumptious - as was the freshly baked sourdough bread with treacle - but I ordered a vegetarian main of beetroot with beetroot rosti and raita and, as you can imagine, it turned out to be a bit heavy on the beetroot. We had about 300 cafetieres of coffee between us, and plenty of white wine and sparkling water. Needless to say - I was not feeling my best when I awoke this morning.

To cure hangover #2 I cooked creamy scrambled eggs on toasted rice bread, then we had toast and marmite with tea. After breakfast we wandered up to the Farmer's Market and tested loads of different sausages - and I drank a zinging pear and ginger juice - then after a walk around Ally Pally we got back and peeled some potatoes then popped them in the oven to roast. I served them with cold roast chicken, cranberry sauce and steamed broccoli with lots of butter and salt and pepper.

We hopped in the car late afternoon and drove onto the miserable, grey, rainy motorway then had a pit stop at the Starvin' Marvins garage (do not EVER actually go into Starvin' Marvins - we did once and know not to ever return) as there's an M&S. This shouldn't excite us - but it does. We secretly LOVE supermarkets. I bought a raspberry jelly and a punnet of ripe, juicy mango. This saw me through the journey to Somerset.

We got back to our freezing house in Frome, Rich lit a fire and I prepared dinner: spinach leaves with mushrooms cooked in garlic butter, toasted walnuts, grated parmesan, mozzarella and avocado - tossed in Rich's French dressing, served with some chilli and garlic sausages we picked up at the Farmer's Market - and followed by a big pint of ice cold water.

I'm very full.

When Rich is at work...

2012-01-27T08:10:00.000-08:00

...I like to play Lauryn Hill on repeat and get nostalgic about the two waves of amazing times I had with this on in the background - one when I was a young teenager and another about two years ago. Rich was there for round two but he was always telling me to turn it off because he doesn't like her. Fortunately - he was only around on the weekends so I'd blast it out Monday-Friday.

This is my fave of the melancholy ones:

And this is obviously the best feel-good one:

Wish list...

2012-01-27T08:07:00.000-08:00

1. A ticket to see Leonardo da Vinci at the National:

2. A ticket to see David Hockney at the RA:

3. A big can of Red Bull for my journey to London:

Oh - sorry - take that last one off. I've already got one, chilling nicely in the fridge. See ya!

Vogue

2012-01-27T06:33:00.001-08:00

If I could have anything to wear this weekend - it would be this outfit:

...*banging*

'Feminism'

2012-01-25T11:31:00.000-08:00

The reason women are afraid to call themselves feminists is not necessarily because of the stereotyped association (dungarees, hairy armpits, shaved head) but because of the RULES. So many published 'feminist' authors list the rules of being a feminist. We all agree on the basic notion that feminism is about choice and equality. But then suddenly choice and equality fly out the window when one 'feminist' thinks it's liberating to wear red lipstick and mini skirts - and another believes it's adhering to a perceived idea of what is sexy and attractive - as dictated by men, and inspired by prostitutes.

In Caitlin Moran's 'How to be a woman' she gives women permission to flirt for promotion, to wear corsets - as they make you feel sexy - and to chase men. But under absolutely no circumstances should you wax your bikini line or - God forbid - go Hollywood! That is because Caitlin Moran got promoted for flirting, feels sexy in a corset and enjoyed chasing men. Other women might feel sexy with a trimmed minge, or a bald one, or a bright pink one. It might make sex more sensual, exciting or adventurous. Those same women might not like to suck in whilst their other half tightly pulls the strings of their corset until the woman inside can't breath.

A while ago I listened to a Woman's Hour where Tory MP Louise Mensch was questioned about her motives for changing her name when she married. It was suggested that this was anti-feminist. She convincingly explained that sharing a surname with her husband was a romantic choice. Again, the notion of 'choice' becomes thwarted when one woman disagrees with another woman's 'choice'.

With marriage, there is a blurred line between the romantic traditions and the downright sexist traditions. Such as a woman vowing to 'obey' her husband. That is undoubtedly devoid of choice and equality. Choosing whether or not you take your husband's name - or they take yours - stay at home with the children, do more cooking and cleaning or go out to work and leave all the housework to your husband - is not about feminism. It's about compromise in a relationship between two people. As is deciding whether to wax your vagina - or relish your bush, squeeze into a corset - or relax in a baggy t-shirt, smother your lips with red lipstick - or go au naturelle, watch your waistline - or sink happily into your fat-rolls.

The influences of porn on young people - who may develop their ideas about sex and body image based on the fake scenes they witness on these internet sites (ludicrously big penises, huge fake tits, miraculously hairless bodies, the idea that coercion is arousing etc) is worth consideration. As is the worldwide epidemic of body issues - eating disorders, dysmorphia and a general obsession with body image. But these aren't necessarily feminist issues. They are human issues. Let's allow to feminism to be about women being equal to men. Not superior to - just equal. And that means having:

Equal right to work. Right to equal pay. Equal right to have sex. Equal right to be intelligent. Equal right to be funny. Equal right to care - or to not care - about how they look. And equality in every other possible way.

I am a feminist. And I'm married. And I have opinions. And I care about how I look. And I care about being creative. And I care about having a job. And I wear red lipstick and wax. And sometimes I wear mini skirts but sometimes I wear flat Camper boots and baggy trousers. And there are lots of other things that I do - or don't do - that might rile up other women and men. But whilst it's all good and well debating (and I LOVE debating) - we can't be telling each other what to do, or not to do - or how to behave. Let women be free to make their own decisions.

What I learnt today

2012-01-24T09:20:00.000-08:00

1. Snacks are crucial.

I returned home from work this afternoon, the phone stuck to my ear - as mum and I were having one of our regular, fairly long chats - leaning up against the front door as it's the only place I have reception in the house. Suddenly I felt this huge rumbling sensation in my stomach, then I heard a gurgling sound reminiscent of water boiling in a pan before it overflows onto the hob. I began to panic - assuming it was a symptom of some kind of rare disease that might kill me instantly and Rich wouldn't be able to get in because I'd be lying in a heap, blocking the entrance to our home - and quickly ended the convo with mum. I tried to ignore the pain, drank some water then put on my running gear and set off - concerned that this might be my last ever run.

Half way round my usual circuit, I began to feel faint and weak. I stopped to catch my breath and stretch then realised - I forgot to have my snacks today! I was in a meeting this morning, which meant forgoing my gluten-free oatcake elevenses - then it was raining so I couldn't go into town to collect my afternoon oranges. In the safe knowledge that I wasn't dying - I was merely hungry - I forced myself to complete my run, got home, cooled down and then decided to write this blog rather than eat. Because I'm an idiot.

Breaks for snack

It's amazing what breaking from my eating routine can do to my system. On (occasional) heavy weekends I break my routine when I drink too much alcohol and don't eat enough (then eat too much to compensate for feelings of anxiety and distress caused by the hangover) - but the calories from the alcohol probably make up for what's lost in skipped meals. And this leads me nicely onto the second thing I learnt today...

2. The government recommend drinking everyday

I discovered an excellent government website telling me to drink 2-3 units a day - that's large glass of wine, a pint of cider or a pint of beer. It did, however, recommend two days off a week. So that's the two days I'm too hungover to touch any booze.

But...

3. Alcohol is very calorific

There are 250 cals in a pint of cider. Now, i'm not one for counting cals but I know that - if that stat is accurate - 4 pints of cider equals half a 'woman's' daily allowance. (nb. It really annoys me that women have to drink and eat less than men. I am 5' 7'' - some men are shorter than me - are THEY allowed to drink more units of alcohol and eat 500 more cals a day?) And so I also learnt that drinking every day will make you fat. I can't drink beer because of the gluten - and now I know I can't replace it with cider - so I'll have to opt for wine. At least it means I won't have annoying bartenders fetching Rich a pint of beer - when we order two Kronenbourgs (for instance) - then asking me: "And is that a half for you?". With wine - they'll probably assume it's a large. Because women love drinking loads of wine but can't possibly handle a pint of beer.

4. Bowel cancer is on the up

And excessive alcohol-consumption is a big contributing factor. The symptoms are fairly gross so I won't list them here - but one is advised (by Yahoo news) to avoid processed meats, alcohol and white carbs. And to do more exercise. I don't eat processed meat or any white carbs so I just need to ensure I stick to the Government's RDA of a large glass of wine a day - and I'll be hunky-dorey.

Valentine's Day

2012-01-24T07:39:00.001-08:00

Just in case Rich forgets his promise - these are the Vivienne Westwood shoes I would like from Deadly is the Female, top of Catherine Hill:

Size 5.

Or these ones from Spirit (opposite La Strada).They're reduced to £60:

Blonde Bombshell

2012-01-24T06:31:00.000-08:00

Remember this guy:

I used to play Bon Jovi songs on the piano with my old jazz piano teacher - she'd sing in a really husky voice and I could never work out if I should try to imitate her husky voice - or sing a squeaky octave above. It often ended up being a combo of the two. And not very pleasant to listen to. A bit like my current imitations of Beyonce - which, according to Rich - make me sound tone deaf. It's Single Ladies that I'm currently working on - but, for some reason, I can't seem to get the notes right. Will continue practising in the shower much - I imagine - to my poor neighbour's dismay. Gets him back for his football hooliganism, though.

Beautiful...

2012-01-23T14:14:00.000-08:00

The Boys

2012-01-23T04:32:00.000-08:00

We had a swell weekend with Rich's family. It began in Nunney on Saturday - lunch and a lovely walk - and ended at Huntsile (his family farm) on Sunday afternoon with a scrumptious lunch and another walk. Check out the anteater dog, Scurry:

He's so scared of everything that he has to be kept on a lead at all times. It's like walking a horse.

2012-01-20T07:31:00.000-08:00

(From Country Homes)

Patti Smith's Polaroids of Life

2012-01-20T06:14:00.000-08:00

Virginia Woolf's Bed II, Monk's House, 2003

Camera Solo, Castello Longhi de Paolis di Fumone, 2006

Paintbrushes, Duncan Grant's Studio, 2008

My Father's Cup, 2004

Robert Mapplethorpe's Slippers, 2002

(From the Guardian)

Currently Loving...

2012-01-19T09:18:00.000-08:00

1. Running in leggings. For a few days I trialled my jogging trousers (pants? Can't remember what they're called but remember being teased for calling them the wrong thing a few years ago by an expert wearer). Leggings make me run faster, make my legs ache less and push me up hills. But they also attract unwanted attention from loser perverts who think it's acceptable to wolf-whistle at women when they're running. *Currently NOT loving* - men (in white vans - sorry to stereotype but you always are, and you're also always in a big group - on your own you'd be too scared to shout anything) who jeer as I jog past. It always makes me jump. I always give you the finger.

2. Very soft grey marl zip-up hoodies (stolen from my brother) - for running in.

3. Goats cheese with my Christmas chutney - pear and raison - on gluten-free oatcakes.

3. Kedgeree. I made the most banging one on Monday - loads of turmeric, nutmeg and chilli powder and topped with tons of fresh coriander.

4. Disposable cameras. Devastated about Kodak! Have had two films developed - one of Glastonbury 2011 and one of autumn/ winter, leading up to Christmas. Have another one on the go but might not be able to get it developed - my man down the road will probably go bust with Kodak. I'm gonna stock up on disposables before they go on Ebay and start costing £300 - like Polaroid films.

5. Cafe La Strada's handmade apple strudel chocolates. O.M.G.

How to be more Interesting

2012-01-18T07:21:00.001-08:00

10 simple steps here.

Local Girls and women writers

2012-01-18T02:05:00.000-08:00

My mum has been trying to persuade me to read Alice Hoffman for EVER and so I borrowed a couple of her novels on Sunday and finished Local Girls last night.

I found it to be fairly uneventful (I'm a big fan of complicated plots and clever twists) but easy to read - in a good way. It certainly evokes a sense of time passing, changing seasons and the effects of tragedy on the family unit.

It's a little book, with a little story and an observant, witty, young narrator. I liked it enough to begin Hoffman's 'The Probable Future' straight after. I read the first couple of pages over breakfast and am already finding myself lured in by the poetic language my mum was banging on about (that was less evident in local girls).

Love reading the work of women. Love reading the work of men, too, but have done far more of that over the years - as men are much more widely published than women. Women, of course, weren't allowed to write until about the 17th century - and even after that - they were still often found hiding behind male pseudonyms. This means the literary canon is still very male-heavy. And so my reading list will remain very female-heavy.

I read an interesting interview with Michele Roberts recently, by Jenny Newman (see here) and when asked if she minded being referred to as a woman writer, she replied:

'When you just say ‘writer’ it's nearly always been signed, unconsciously, as a man. And then you have ‘woman writer’ or ‘Black writer’ or ‘working-class writer’—‘the other’. And of course if you're put in that category of ‘other’ you're going to resent it. I think that's why so many writers I admire and esteem who are women did not wish to be called women writers, had no interest in feminism and didn't want to be in women-only anthologies.

But I think they ended up accepting the status quo, which meant they had to somehow become a bit masculine. I prefer to tackle the issue head-on and say the world is riven by gender division. So I'm quite happy to say I'm a woman writer, though I don't believe in some kind of essentialist notion that by virtue of being a woman you automatically write differently to a man. I feel that denies writerly strategies, writerly sophistication and writerly choices, because there's a certain kind of good, old-fashioned, omniscient narrator that someone of either gender could write. Not all women write in a Kristevan, semiotic way.'

By declaring my desire to focus on the work of women writers - I'm not expecting a different type of literature to that produced by men - but, instead, want to support the work of women that has been, and still is, underrated and largely ignored for far too long.

Jenny Artichoke

2012-01-18T02:03:00.000-08:00

I like this blog - all about the 60s - see here.

Colourful Christmas

2012-01-13T05:22:00.000-08:00

Lauren just casually rocking out her toque - teamed with leopard print dressing gown:

Clashing nicely with my curtains:

Whilst I rock out my lion/ leopard getup:

A Visit from the Goon Squad

2012-01-12T12:25:00.001-08:00

On further reflection.... and after a conversation with Rich - I've remembered that I really didn't like the end of Jennifer Egan's 'A Visit from the Goon Squad.' I found the flow charts - and that whole section - quite tiresome. Some were a bit funny and a bit clever - but most would have worked better as prose. And the last part of the book shoots into the future and tries to conjure a technology-obsessed era (even more so than we are now) - parodying the iPhone, or the smart phone in general, and the social networking phenomenon. We are too close to that future for it to be worth predicting. When George Orwell wrote 1984; a clever, imaginative and - in parts - apt prediction of what 1984 would be like (in 1949) - it was distant enough to be impressive if it was correct and not embarrassing if it didn't work. But maybe that's also because he's dead. Egan should have aimed for 2050 or just finished her stories in the present. Because the past and the present are what she writes about SO well. And because of that - the slightly disappointing ending doesn't detract from the rest of the novel - that's why I forgot to mention it earlier.

Stolen Post

2012-01-12T12:24:00.001-08:00

I have just borrowed this from Brown Rabbit's blog - because it's great:

"In my next life I want to live my life backwards. You start out dead and get that out of the way. Then you wake up in an old people’s home feeling better every day. You get kicked out for being too healthy, go collect your pension, and then when you start work, you get a gold watch and a party on your first day. You work for 40 years until you’re young enough to enjoy your retirement. You party, drink alcohol, and are generally promiscuous, then you are ready for high school. You then go to primary school, you become a kid, you play. You have no responsibilities, you become a baby until you are born. And then you spend your last 9 months floating in luxurious spa-like conditions with central heating and room service on tap, larger quarters every day and then Voila! You finish off as an orgasm!"

- Woody Allen

A Visit from the Goon Squad

2012-01-12T08:15:00.001-08:00

by Jennifer Egan

The way my day pans out is hugely dictated by the book i'm reading. If it's good - I'll skip my lunchtime run and instead go to a coffee shop and read for an hour. I will also read it whilst walking up the stairs, peeing, eating breakfast, before bed and instead of tv. I will be full of joy at the prospect of snatching a quick half hour to read - anywhere and at any time. And then I will become tormented with disappointment when I realise I'm getting near the end. Once finished, I often take a few days to recover, mull over what I've just experienced and try to regain my literary composure before beginning another book.

Good books have been falling into my possession almost weekly, of late (some fall from Amazon - and I've ordered them - so not such a fluke, but I'm referring to gifts and borrowed books). My last book was lent by Maeve - The Help by Katherine Stockett. Brilliant characters, gripping tales and perfect dialect. But the one I've just read (Christmas present from Denis) caught me most off-guard. I don't like the title and I didn't like the front cover but persevered nonetheless (I know the gift-giver has a good taste in books) and I have been locked into that novel for the last few days.

There are so many characters, stories, themes and plots - that you feel as if you will quickly get lost or forget who's who - but Egan manages to somehow write in a way that makes it easy to keep up. I was enthralled throughout and today, as I relished the last few pages, felt that familiar sense of disappointment. I knew it had to end but I could have read another 300 pages of those stories.

Recommended.

CORRECTION

2012-01-10T10:55:00.000-08:00

I put up a blogpost a few days ago about my weekend and wrote something about Rich's tendency to opt for greasy Chinese at Uni. He had been joking when he said that he used go on bi-weekly hot dates to the Chinese restaurant - but I missed the irony in my inebriated state. And so I would like to correct that false information. It was actually the Indian restaurants of Brick Lane that he frequented. Apologies, Rich.

Howl

2012-01-10T04:30:00.000-08:00

As a big fan of beat poetry - and the beat generation - I was quite excited to see 'Howl' - a film about Allen Ginsburg's life as a poet.

James Franco plays Ginsburg and is very nice to look at - but not the right man for the role. He is too good looking. And too cleancut - the facial hair looks fake. And the accent contrived. Though Rich thought he played the part well, so perhaps for those less familiar with Ginsburg - the character is more believable.

The film is based on real interviews, a court hearing (his first published, and most famous, poem Howl was deemed 'obscene' and Lawrence Ferlinghetti - of City Lights Publishers - was taken to court. Ferlinghetti won the case) and his writing.

It was fairly watchable - I liked the biography - but the animation was tacky and unnecessary. It made me question whether poetry should be teamed with moving animation. I think if the right animator and poet *work together* - it can be quite powerful. But, in the film, it felt like the animation was trying to explain the poem word-for-word and it detracted from the sometimes ambiguous imagery that should force the reader (or audience) to use their imagination.

I'd recommend watching it if it comes on TV but don't pay to watch it (like we did).

The real Allen Ginsberg:

Feminist Sunday

2012-01-09T10:43:00.000-08:00

Yesterday's Observer had a delightful amount of interesting feminist articles. Rather than summarise, I'll post the links:

Yvonne Roberts on Eve Arnold

Nick Cohen on Stieg Larsson

Gaby Hinsliff on Tory feminists

(The Stieg Larsson article was a bit lost on me as I haven't read The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo - but I like that a male journo has taken an interest in whether its author was a feminist male or not.)

January

2012-01-09T09:28:00.000-08:00

Rich and I have decided not to succumb to the January Blues - but to instead have a really fun month. And so we began this weekend. Friday night was a long evening of wine and talking in the (disconcertingly empty) Corner House. Everyone has decided to give their livers a break - we've decided to continue treating ours as well as we did over the Christmas period.

Saturday morning was spent drinking LOTS of tea, eating poached egg and bacon from the local butcher (standard Saturday breakfast) and reading the Guardian. In the afternoon I went for a MASSIVE run - it was so sunny and lovely and I just couldn't stop. Until I got caught up with some dodgy people hanging out on a street corner who scared me and made my heart beat faster than the running had and I thought I was about to have a heart attack - so I swiftly turned around a ran home very fast.

Late afternoon, we headed into town for a pint - which ended up being rather more than just a pint - and got ourselves so tiddly that we forgot how disgusting Chinese food was. We went to the (disconcertingly full) Chinese restaurant on Palmer Street and Rich ordered his usual (Chinese was apparently his staple at Uni) foul selection of msg-laden gloopy dog-meat mains. We enjoyed using the chopsticks and talking very loudly but quickly realised that the food was atrocious and left. Rich felt sick but I didn't so I danced around the sitting room merrily, whilst he rubbed his stomach and sat hunched over on the sofa (occasionally perking up and giving my moves some attention).

Sunday was spent driving around some of Somerset's best reclamation yards. In Wells there's an amazing antique/ vintage/ reclamation shop (though rather over-priced, so I left empty-handed) - full of beautiful furniture, rusty tools, fur coats and floral tea sets.

In the afternoon we had a coffee and delicious chicken liver pate with toasted rye and salad in Hundred Monkeys (surprisingly nice cafe in Glastonbury), then popped into a flipping WEIRD 'water temple' at the bottom of the Tor - candle lit, water dripping everywhere and a massive pool in the middle, which you can't really see because it's so dark. But they say you can get in. Imagine how many stinking barefoot Glastonbury inhabitants have taken a dip in those waters - less sacred, more TOTALLY disgusting. The temple reminded me of a scary scene from Robin Hood. Maybe in a jail?

Then we mounted the Tor:.

A heart-shaped UFO had landed in the distance, though it was a little difficult to photograph it:

Home for fillet steak with creamy mash and crunchy greens, followed by a glass of Baileys and an evening by the fire reading the Observer.

Love January.

Love this one too...

2012-01-07T02:20:00.001-08:00

Michael Kiwanuka

2012-01-06T06:55:00.001-08:00

Think I posted this video a while ago but didn't realise that this guy was in the year below me at school, until I saw this interview with him.

What a beautiful voice...

G'wan boy!

Currently listening to...

2012-01-04T09:56:00.001-08:00

Wales

2012-01-03T06:03:00.000-08:00

Wales has been mostly: raining, windy, cold and tiring. But also relaxing, invigorating, adventurous and rejuvenating. Seemingly paradoxical terms, perhaps, but apt for most British walking holidays - I expect.

After a constant stream of family and friends visiting us in Frome over Christmas, vast quantities of Prosecco being consumed, and too much time spent sitting on our arses - we were excited to pack our entire house into the car (self-catering holidays require rather more luggage-effort than b&bs) and drive over the Severn to Way-als.

We arrived in Brecon early evening, with rain pouring down the windscreen, winds howling outside the car and the pitch black nighttime sky making it incredibly difficult to navigate our way to the barn in which we'd be residing for the next five nights. We eventually worked it out and pulled into the drive. After a quick greeting from the owner, we were pointed in the right direction and made our way into a warm, quaint barn. Rich lit a fire, we cracked open the wine and had a chilled evening.

On New Year's Eve, we headed out on a highly ambitious hike up a mountain. Rain still pelting down - we parked up, pulled on our walking boots, lifted the hoods on our waterproofs and set off (nervous laughter occasionally rising above the roaring winds and numerous sideways glances at each other to share our slight trepidation). Eager to capture every moment, thinking it may be our last - I opted for a classic 'let's photograph ourselves as there's no one else to' - which Rich never cooperates with and I always cuss other people for doing:

As I have a slight height misconception and believe myself to be as tall as Rich - his face often gets cut in half, as I frame my own face and assume his will be lined up next to it.

We began the hike but after a pretty gruelling uphill climb through marshland and streams - with no clear path to follow - we realised that we couldn't see anything because of the fog, mist and rain. This not only meant that it was slightly dangerous for us amateurs, but also that when we reached the top of the mountain - we wouldn't be able to see any of the amazing views. Tails between our legs, we admitted defeat and trundled back down to the car to eat our packed lunch of brectan gouse (cheese sandwich in Welsh - the only thing I can remember form my Welsh lessons during my TEFL. Excuse the probable mis-spelling) and oatcakes.

We came home and I went for a hardcore uphill run then put on my gladrags and we headed to the Griffin at Felin Fach for NYE dinner. It was truly delicious - crab apple salad starter, roasted hake with mushroom risotto and celeriac puree for main then vanilla creme brulee with pineapple and red wine sauce for dessert. After a bottle of sparkling wine - we headed back to the barn to see in the new year with each other. It was somewhat more tame than previous NYE's have been - but I was grateful for that the next morning.

On new year's day, we set off on a 6 mile walk to check out some Brecon Beacon waterfalls:

Me and my geeky getup:

...you may laugh now. But it was me who was laughing when the rain was flooding through the trees in the forest and simply sliding off my sensible jacket onto the floor - rather than soaking through onto my wooly jumper and freezing my chest up - to match my iceblock legs (forgot to put on my waterproof trousers).

There were four waterfalls to look at. The first two were calming and beautiful but then I quickly grew bored and so we skipped the last one and rushed back to dry off in the car.

Don't wear your fave leggins walking in Wales:

After a long day out in the wind and rain, we spent the evening by the fire then woke up on day four feeling FRESH. And, at last, the sun was shining! So we decided to climb up Pen Y Fan - the highest peak in South Wales.

As soon as we began the uphill climb, I became desperate for a pee - so I nipped into this super-eerie forest:

We then MARCHED up this mountain - pushing past other walkers - desperate to reach the top.

I began to notice snow and felt pretty high up. The altitude mashed my ears and I had to pull up my hood.

The views were tremendous - sparkling lakes and panoramic views of the other mountain ranges:

We got really near the top and suddenly I noticed that I was teetering on the edge of a rather steep cliff. Vertigo kicked in and I began to panic. Rich quickly realised it would be wise not to force me to climb to the top so we agreed that he'd go on without me and I'd walk back down a bit - away from the edge and out of the wind. I tried to slowly navigate my way back down, with tears streaming from my left eye, (not emotional tears - tears from the bitter-cold winds) and shaky legs. I slipped a little and wondered if this was my end: death by vertigo.

Fortunately, the mountain God had his watchful eye on me and guided me to safety. Once I'd reached a less horrific standing point, I turned around and watched as my beloved walked off into the distance. He became quickly immersed in a huge fog cloud and I could no longer see his bright yellow backpack cover. Again, I began to panic - until two chirpy German men came and complimented me on my leopard print leggings (very good walking getup that day - bright pink socks, leopard print leggings, flower in my hair and light brown woolen cricket jumper) and I got distracted by our conversation about fashion. I then remembered that the love of my life had marched into a cloud on a steep, dangerous peak and so I bid the Germans farewell and returned my attention to Rich.

It felt like hours that he was gone. Heavy sleet had begun to pelt down - with strong winds blowing us towards the edge of the cliff - and my little legs were frozen solid. Eventually, my lover emerged from the mist and I realised he'd just been taking loads of photos - not battling the elements; fighting for his life.

He reached me and we stormed down the mountain, cheeks and hands stinging from the icey sleet and wind - contemplating warning other walkers about what lay ahead but too cold to actually move our mouths - and discussing my idea for a new fashion range (watch this space).

We reached the bottom, high-fived and I thanked the anonymous deity that saved my life up there.

Home. Fire. Wine. Chilli and baked potatoes.

This morning: aching bums, roaring winds, pissing rain. We decided to chill by the fire, read our books (I've just finished The Help by Kathryn Stockett - VERY good) and drink lots of tea and coffee.

I'm sad that tonight is our last night. We will wave goodbye to the wild horses who roam the mountain tops, the millions of sheep who pepper the meadows (there really are LOADS of them in Wales) and the beautiful little barn that has been our temporary home.

But I will not be sad to get back to Frome, where the weather is - at last marginally - less atrocious.

Room with a View

2011-12-31T01:44:00.001-08:00

We awoke this morning to this beautiful view:

We're in Wales and there are sheep a mere 10 foot from our room. How apt.

Artist's View

2011-12-30T11:44:00.000-08:00

We arrived in the Brecon Beacons this afternoon. It's pissing with rain and the clouds are hanging low - but the place we are staying in is truly magnificent. It's in the middle of nowhere (very hard to find in the pitch black late afternoon and torrential rain) but this little converted barn looks out on the most beautiful green fields and is super cosy. There's a huge wood burner, a tasteful open plan kitchen/ diner/ sitting room - all in pristine condition - a sweet little bedroom and a clean, amply-sized bathroom.

The owners popped out to say 'hello' - then left us to it. This is our preferred style of greeting. We hauled our bags from the car into the well lit barn and discovered a plate of DELICIOUS homemade brownies, some locally-made apple juice and a little carton of milk. Nice touch.

Two bottles of Prosecco and a dinner of stilton, pear, avocado and rocket salad with a scrumptious dressing and baked potatoes - now music and then a film.

Love Wales.

Love holidays.

LOVE this song

2011-12-23T00:58:00.000-08:00

... and have been trying to find it for ages. Thought it was Bonamassa but now realise it's Walter Trout:

Listening to this at top volume in the car and singing as loudly as you can - ideally with a male singing loudly next to you - is one of my fave past-times.

Joe Bonamassa

2011-12-23T00:48:00.000-08:00

I LOVE Joe Bonamassa:

My dad and I send each other videos and recordings we find of him - and it's basically the only time we ever communicate when we're not together. Dad is not one for small talk or just 'catching up' - he needs a reason to speak. Bonamassa is a good reason to speak.

Feeling FESTIVE!

2011-12-21T04:30:00.000-08:00

Forget the last blog post! I've just suddenly found my festive mojo! Pam, one the of directors of NVB and a trustee of Rook Lane Arts, just dropped a little unexpected present on my desk for me that she picked up whilst shopping for our Christmas party:

No feigned excitement necessary - I was genuinely pleased! What a lovely little present.

Becoming Scrooge

2011-12-21T03:17:00.000-08:00

Oh dear. It appears that living with Scrooge is having an affect on me. Whilst I'm normally skipping about in Christmas jumpers, devouring mince pies and singing along to Mariah - this year I'm in a grump about wrapping presents, a grump about the fact that all mulled wine tastes sour (even when copious spoonfuls of sugar are added), in a grump about excessive waste and consumption at this time of year and in a grump about the fact that I'm generally just not feeling festive.

I've just realised that one of the reasons may be the fact that we don't have a telly. When you watch tv in the evenings, the Christmas ads (generally running from October) begin to infiltrate your mind - forcing you to think about Christmas and sing along to the songs and buy fairy lights and eat Christmas food.

Another reason is that I don't have much time to get festive. Last year I was working from home which meant I had hour upon hour to whip up pear chutneys and decorate the glass jars with pretty ribbons, to cook venison feasts for me and Rich, to hand-make Christmas cards and to eat mince pies. Working full time means present-buying and making is somewhat rushed - taking all the pleasure out of it.

Lastly, I hate surprises. I hate coming up with them and I hate being the recipient. I'm absolutely no good at fake-smiling my way through bad presents. I have to leave the room for fear my expression may upset the present-giver. Fortunately, Rich ruined the surprise present he was planning for me as he wanted to make sure it would fit. It would have actually been a beautiful surprise but I'm glad he told me and we could choose it together. To make up for his (unfounded) guilt of ruining my surprise - I found an opportune moment last night to ruin his surprise by tippsily revealing what I'd bought him. He had no idea. He didn't appreciate my honesty.

Now that we're both in a Scrooge-state-of-mind - we've decided to boycott the festive season next year and escape to foreign seas. But obviously, now that I've shared my heartfelt antipathy towards Xmas '11, I'll probably suddenly get struck with the Christmas stick and begin to revel in the festivities. Here's to ho (ho ho)-ping.

Flowers and Etiquette

2011-12-21T02:51:00.000-08:00

We had some family friends round for dinner last night and Rich made a vat of the most scrumptious paneer curry. We cracked a bottle of Prosecco to celebrate the engagement of their daughter - a surprisingly good accompaniment to curry. A good accompaniment to anything, probably. LOVE Prosecco.

They bought us this lovely jar of flowers from Bramble and Wild:

Again, we failed to provide dessert. Again - I did provide salted caramels. These ones are handmade locally and taste like sweet heaven. After a curry - all you need is a little mouthful of something sweet and delicious - one is too full for pudding. That's my excuse, anyone. Constantly challenging the dinner-party etiquette.

Currently listening to...

2011-12-21T00:47:00.001-08:00

...Your Song:

Money

2011-12-20T00:46:00.001-08:00

Last night we watched Vanessa Engle's documentary 'Money' - about money. Having missed the first two in the series we accidentally jumped straight to the third - but there doesn't seem to be a particular order as each covers a different money-related topic. Engle made a brilliant doc about women last year - called Women - and has also made a series about Jewish people, called, unsurprisingly - Jews. I'm rather a fan of her work - the way she interviews, edits and films but mostly the way she takes an interesting angle on fairly broad subjects.

Money is divided into three episodes - the first about people with money, trying to get rich, or helping other people to get rich. The second is about couples and how they manage their finances, and the third is about a handful of families who have a combined household income of £40,000 - and how they chose to spend it. Engle is pretty nosey, which is great - and you inevitably end up discussing money matters with your TV-watching companion.

Rich and I are yet to watch the couples episode but I read an article about it in which Engle is asked if money-compatibility is as important as sexual compatibility in a relationship. She basically says "yes". And so I asked Rich if we are financially compatible - and he said "no". Rich is careful with his money (not tight, careful) - ensuring he only spends what he has. He chooses not to splash out on lavish meals or holidays but will generally go along with me after a little gentle persuasion. I, on the other hand, love spending money. I don't have a credit card, and I only have a tiny overdraft, but I do tend to linger right at the bottom of the overdraft come the end of the month. I think that my extravagant spending is tamed by Rich's sensible attitude towards money. Similarly, his tendency to forget to do anything nice with his dosh is eased by my encouragement.

I would say that makes us financially compatible.

Watch Ms Engle's docs before they expire on iPlayer. They are rather good. Read her BBC blog about the docs here.

My Life After Masterchef

2011-12-18T10:30:00.001-08:00

Having quite fervently followed Masterchef over the past few weeks - I now think I'm something of a chef. I'm full of ambition. That's why last night I attempted the most technically-challenging meal I've ever cooked. It was (cue husky male narrator voice) duck - pan fried, then roasted, with homemade apple sauce, roasted figs, a red wine jus and potato and apple rostis.

I don't know if that sounds complicated or simple but having to time everything, wash up pans as I went and navigate my way round our miniature galley kitchen - made it bloody difficult. The truth is - watching professional chefs whip up numerous storms on Masterchef may imbue a sense of feasibility - but, in fact, makes you no more culinary competent than simply reading a recipe book.

The second truth is that I rarely read recipes properly before beginning to cook. I'll check for real delaying factors (having to chill/ marinade over night, wait for yeast to rise etc) but don't properly digest the instructions until I'm in the midst of it all. And so I didn't realise that I'd need to use EVERY pan we own - to fry shallots for the red wine jus, whilst chargrilling figs, cooking apple sauce and frying the duck. Whilst these elements were underway - I was also supposed to be tossing eggs to release the yolk, before grating apple and potato into the bowl and adding a dollop of creme fraiche to the mix.

I was shouting out timings - rather than simply jotting them down - so that I knew when the duck should go in the oven, the apple sauce should come off the heat and be mushed, the jus should have the wine added (then reduced before the stock was added) and the rostis were ready for shallow frying before going in the oven.

Gosh - transcribing this cooking process is beginning to reassure me that I'm not entirely incompetent - there really was a lot going on.

Anyways. I added too much butter to the jus and it tasted like a mouthful of sea water but I then managed to bring it back by adding more wine. I was tasting all the time - Monica would be happy. So would (cue New Zealand accent) 'My Boss'. The rostis were different sizes (I'd failed to spot that I needed metal rings to shallow fry them in. Who has 'metal rings'?) so they were all cooked slightly differently.

I managed to let the duck sit for 10 minutes before serving so that the blood had run out of it, then I sliced it and laid it on top of the rostis. The figs were in a line on one side and plenty of apple sauce on the other, then I drizzled the jus over the top. It tasted quite scrumptious but obviously didn't look very good because otherwise there would be a photo on here.

Monica's face might have looked something like this:

... but then she would have tasted it, cracked a big smile and said: "This is very good. I'd serve this to My Boss." And we'd clink our champagne glasses and all tuck in. But Greg would be in a grump because all I could offer for dessert was a shot of Baileys.

Knitted Wreath

2011-12-18T03:17:00.000-08:00

Marmalade Yarns, on Catherine Hill, has the best wreath ever (excluding my heart-shaped wreath, obvs):

Churches

2011-12-18T03:14:00.000-08:00

Love churches. Maybe I'm an undercover believer. This is St John's church, Frome:

Check out this weird window:

I like it.

The Triumph of Venus

2011-12-17T01:43:00.000-08:00

This drawing of Venus rising, by Peter Paul Rubens, is absolutely jaw-dropping. It was a design for an ornate ivory salt cellar carved by George Petel. I NEED to see it in the flesh.

New Jumper

2011-12-16T10:03:00.000-08:00

TOTALLY in love with my new wooly card from Spirit, Frome:

... literally skipped down the street after buying it. It was rather expensive but as I've had my eye on it for a VERY long time - and it was the last one - who cares. Christmas present to me take 10.

Happy Birthday Jane

2011-12-16T04:43:00.000-08:00

(Austen)

Born on this day in 1775.

In remembrance, some of her classic quotes:

"A large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of."

"Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of."

"Life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings."

"Surprises are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable." (here here!)

"To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love."

"We met Dr. Hall in such deep mourning that either his mother, his wife, or himself must be dead."

What a joker.

Heart-shaped Wreath

2011-12-16T02:38:00.000-08:00

Love this heart-shaped wreath on our mint green door:

Grown-up Dinner Party

2011-12-16T00:46:00.000-08:00

There are distinct differences between a dinner party with people our own age and a dinner party with real grown-ups. The latter arrive weighed down with gifts - pretty potted plants, numerous bottles of wine, chocolates. The conversation is in-depth, peppered with historical and political references. They are incredibly polite about the food - even if it's not very nice. They leave at a reasonable hour.

Friends of our own age tend to rock up empty-handed, or dash to the local offy for some slightly gross wine. This is perhaps just our social circle. I have a few friends who are grown-up enough to plan ahead and bring a bottle. But just a few. And definitely female. The conversation will veer towards politics but then will quickly be brought back to light-hearted banter. We laugh more. Get hysterical, even. They are not so polite about the food - but, as with the conversation, they tend to know us better and so don't feel a need to be polite or make such an effort. They stay the night because they've always drunk too much to drive or walk home.

Last night, our guests were in their mid-late 60s. We polished the glasses (flutes, white and red wine glasses) and cutlery, chilled the Prosecco and a selection of whites, and warmed the red, scrubbed the tables, lit candles for ambience:

And generally made quite an effort.

The convo went from horses at Olympia to Nazi Germany, the National Theatre to Mozart VS Beethoven. One of the guests got up and sight-read a rather tricky piece of music on the piano - entertaining us all for five minutes, then returned to the table and we talked about pianos. I was in dinner-party heaven.

My slightly less than adequate mathematics (down to damaged confidence because Rich always tells me how crap I am. I remind him that I got a grade higher than him in GCSEs. He still cusses me) meant that half-way through cooking the mushroom-tarragon risotto - I realised I'd only done 4 and a half portions. We gave our guests overly-generous lumps of creamy rice, Rich got an ample serving and I had a pitiful serving - the size of jam jar lid. I had to squash it down so that it spread further and they wouldn't realised that my proportions were to cater less for an army - and more for a toddlers' tea party.

I quickly sat down and shovelled salad onto the plate to disguise my fairy-sized portion. Rich did the same. And we carried the conversation to avoid any attention on our plates. It reminded me slightly of my mum telling me that when her and my dad first moved back to London, they couldn't afford alcohol and so they'd tell guests they didn't drink then sit at the dinner table, watching the guests devour the bottles of wine they'd brought with them, feeling a little bit uncomfortable. Except the lack of risotto was not due to being poor - but due to miscalculation.

When our guests finished their (decent-sized portions) - I couldn't offer them more because I'd scraped the remnants out already for the first serving. That was a slight faux-pas. But otherwise - the food went down well. It was followed with salted caramels and coffee. We skipped dessert (I think this was another mistake - Rich disagrees) because we're not really pudding-people. And then, as it was a week night, they politely thanked us and drove off into the night. No hanging around (like our friends might do - oblivious of the fact we have work the next day).

It was a lovely evening. We like our 'older' friends.

Today so far...

2011-12-15T01:45:00.000-08:00

It is 9.47am. I woke up early (despite having had a late night after a somewhat drunken, but delicious, meal at La Bisalta with family) and found myself twiddling my thumbs - having finished my book and forgetting what to do on the internet when I have a spare 1/2 hour. And so I left early for work.

I opened the door and saw this:

Good start.

I looked down and saw this:

This is not a good look. I don't ride a bicycle and so there's no reason to tuck my jeans into my socks. But whatever - it keeps my ankles warm.

I went into the kitchen at work and - though I had arrived 20 minutes early - felt a bit naughty making a phone call to my sister (hangover anxiety) - especially when someone came in (this is rare - I work alone) and caught me. I put down the phone and text my sister saying: 'Phone you later blud'. Then realised I'd sent it to a volunteer by mistake.

Me and my sister laughed with each other through text message then I ate a (gluten-free shop bought) mince pie:

... and made a disgusting cafetiere of coffee with luke-warm water but I'm still drinking it.

Good day, so far.

Best Xmas Card EVA

2011-12-14T14:48:00.000-08:00

Beautiful Janey gave me the most wonderful handmade Christmas card I've ever received:

xx

Poem

2011-12-14T09:23:00.000-08:00

By Annie

Now it's all 'Top 10s' and
review the year,
question your relationships -
assess your career.

As December's end draws closer
and '11 fades away -
we feel we must reflect
rather than living in today.

And at the stroke of midnight -
on December 31st -
we begin to talk of 2012
as if it's all rehearsed.

We're suddenly full of ambition -
and 'New Year's Resolutions'
to jog and abstain from booze and food -
as if this is the solution

to our woes and regrets from yesteryears -
for the mistakes we continue to make.
But let us be realistic - and conclude -
that resolutions are just there to break.

Rook Lane Weddings

2011-12-14T07:57:00.001-08:00

I've just been updating the Rook Lane Wedding blog (the chapel I work in is an art gallery/ music venue but you can also get *married* here - wahooo!) and have realised that for someone who doesn't work here every day - this really is a super-duper wedding venue. It's darned cheap compared to other venues and you can organise your own live music, poetry readings, raps, dance routines - whatevs - as long as they aren't religious. *Perfect*

So if you're thinking of getting married (and you should, it's great) in the South West, or more specifically - in Somerset - check out the Rook Lane Weddings blog here

Plug over.

Scrooge? Yeah - 'Whatever'

2011-12-14T00:42:00.000-08:00

My self-proclaimed 'Scrooge' of a husband appears to be melting a little. After an outrageously expensive trip to Sainsburys (Prosecco, Christmas tree, nice food etc) - we decided to swing by some of the Frome houses that set up grotto over the Xmas period. Unafraid of the dwindling economy and the destruction excessive electricity consumption causes to the planet - they set up their three million Xmas lights, pump out their Christmas tunes (to be heard from across the street. No joke) and have a jolly good time:

Rich was a big fan - more Saint Nicholas than Scrooge.

We returned home and he asked if he should put the lights on the Christmas tree. I was utterly silenced by this comment. All I've been hearing is how pointless Christmas trees are, how foul mince pies are, how overly sweet mulled wine is and how crap Christmas music is. And so I said no.

I started putting the very long set of coloured lights (Rich's idea - the coloured bit - the extra-long bit was my fault) around our one-foot tree (so tiny, in fact, that it was laughed at by our neighbour when we bumped into him in Sainos), whilst listening to classic Crimbo tunes and having a jolly good time.

Rich started to get jealous so he ripped open the new set of gold sparkly baubles and began arranging them on our little tree. It was beautiful:

As usual, my photography skills are lacking the necessary to take a good pic of what is a VERY good tree - but to give you a taste...

One of my favourite baubles is this bronze vintage one from a collection I bought on Catherine Hill at the weekend:

But my absolute fave is obviously the one my lovely friend Janey made me:

We were so 'in the spirit' I popped some mulled wine on the hob and some creme brulees under the grill. That was when Rich stormed into the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" He shouted.

"Just making some mulled wine," I squeaked - cowering down towards the hippie lino-floor.

"I don't like mulled wine." He thundered back.

"Oh. It was all going so well," I whispered.

Then he cracked one of his beautiful smiles, gave me a lovely hug and said he didn't mind drinking some mulled wine. I pressed 'play' on Spotify and 'All I want for Christmas' came booming out and we danced around the Christmas tree, clinking our steaming glasses of fruity mulled wine. Kind of.

We're getting there...

How to be a Woman

2011-12-13T09:31:00.000-08:00

By Caitlin Moran

I found the first couple of chapters of Caitlin Moran's 'How to be a Woman' rather dull. But not quite dull enough to defeat me (partly due to copious positive reviews from people I admire). And so I continued and became rather engrossed in her crass tales of womanhood.

So few women speak up about some of the issues that she dares to conquer - abortion, the shit and blood of child birth, reasons for and against becoming a parent, dieting, sex (of every variety - anal, oral etc), periods, ageing and plenty of other 'women's issues'. She doesn't tiptoe around and she doesn't feign a more politically correct/ acceptable opinion. It is like reading the most blunt diary ever written.

I found there to be rather too many swear words (I'm not impartial to the odd well-placed swear word but if it's overdone, it becomes devoid of comedy/ shock value). There are also some generalisations about how women feel about their bodies/ princesses/ men that are lacking gravitas. For a feminist to make a generalisation about women is, in my opinion - somewhat anti-feminist.

But her experience of all the things she talks about makes for good, gritty reading - and when talking from experience - it becomes easier to relate to her. Her lurid descriptions are believable and impressively frank. Certain women will empathise with certain female experiences - she should have felt assured by that, rather than trying to relate to every woman with every sentence.

But, on the whole - a very good read. I'm a little bit of a fan now. And if the damned Times weren't charging for their online paper - I'd be sure to check out some more of her writing.

Some things I love...

2011-12-10T03:06:00.000-08:00

1. This table in the Garden Cafe:

Rich and I went to eat there last night. He had delicious stone-baked pizza with jalapenos and olives and I had a scrumptious salad bowl with coleslaw, nutty quinoa, chickpeas in a yoghurty sauce, green leaves, curried cauliflower and a side order of salted almonds. Delish. We also devoured a bottle of lovely Sauvignon.

2. My rock 'n' roll boots. These vintage badboys have buckles all over them and jingle when I walk:

I teamed them with my snake skin leggings (animal-print Friday) and my lovely, soft cream jumper with a black ribbon bow at the neck.

Hard to photograph your own back:

I asked Rich if he thought I looked rock and roll and he said no - I didn't - that I looked chic; middle-aged chic. I obviously threw him a super-dirty look and then spent a short while trying to explain why my outfit was rock. He eventually started to get it. Shouldn't take so much explaining though. Rich thinks rock 'n' roll means wearing an outfit that you could roll around Glastonbury in. I decided that I might start wearing ripped tights and micro-minis. Quarter-life-crisis.

Keston Sutherland

2011-12-07T07:23:00.001-08:00

I was slightly obsessed with my tutor at Sussex - Keston Sutherland. I just stumbled across this video of him reading his poetry:

Talk about Lyrical G.

Read the article I found it in here.

WTF???

2011-12-06T09:43:00.000-08:00

I just read a Comment is Free article by Susie Orbach (see here) on Nadine's Dorries' amendment to the health and social care bill. The changes meant that women seeking terminations would be offered counselling from organisations unrelated to the abortion providers, but some of these were faith-based charities (who were anti-choice).

Susie made some very good points. I then, as usual, got sucked in to the comments below. Most of it is bullshit but this one stuck out:

Gulfstream5

I'm fortunate enough never to have been expected to pay for a woman's abortion. Once when a condom broke a few shots with my bicycle pump charged with Coca Cola forstalled the necessity!

Bicycle pump? WTF!

Succulent Sunday and Similes

2011-12-06T08:53:00.001-08:00

Rook Lane Arts blog has to take daytime precedence over this blog so check out my succulent Sunday here.

While you're at it, check out this website for absolute jokes. The worst similes ever - here's one example:

'He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.'

Domestic Bliss

2011-12-03T05:21:00.000-08:00

Rich will never self-motivate himself to clean any part of the house - but if I ask him to do a particular chore - he does it, and he does it with gusto.

And so this morning, when we returned home from Bristol and I felt angry that the bathroom so badly needed a clean, I asked Rich if he'd give it a good scrub and he complied. He's been in there for over an hour - bleaching, scrubbing, scouring, spraying. The smell of bleach is wafting through the house but knowing that it's coming from a soon-to-be sparkling bathroom is making it all the more bearable.

I went to check on Rich and this is what I found:

I love how seriously he takes his domestic duties. Though he's grumbling under his breath that he'd rather be out in the garden (playing with worms and digging holes with his little shovel).

...ponchos

2011-12-02T09:42:00.000-08:00

I've always hated ponchos - finding them impractical, uncomfortable and a dash dowdy. But, for some reason, I've suddenly started to find them rather appealing. They remain highly impractical - how do you wear a handbag with a poncho? What do you do about your cold arms? etc.

Today I bought my first poncho/shawl. I like the colours and it is very soft. My arms are cold and Rich will have to put my wallet in his pocket whilst we go out for the night - but my mobile will fit neatly in the back pocket of my navy blue cords and I never take keys out as this seems to be Rich's responsibility.

New poncho:

The poncho-shawl, or shawncho (?), goes nicely with my fave new vintage beige cowboy boots (what order to put four adjectives in? Perhaps best to limit oneself to two in future). And though my arms are nippy - my legs make up for this with my super-warm cords.

Best Day of my Life

2011-11-30T00:45:00.000-08:00

Planning a wedding is defs one of the most stressful things I've ever done. The pressure from parents/ friends/ strangers who think they're invited is incredibly tiring and because of that - it's taken me a little while (6 months) - to forget the niggles and just remember the lovely parts.

Waking up that morning with clear blue skies, going for a run in the sunshine then returning to the beautiful old rambling b&b we were staying in and sipping champagne with mum and Lauren whilst I put on my make-up and slipped into my dress - felt amazing. The ceremony was informal (registry office) but all our close family were there. I got uncontrollable giggles (this is what comes out, rather than tears when I'm super-emotional) and can't really remember saying my vows - but I do remember the sincerity with which Rich said his. And there was none of the awkwardness that I'd slightly feared - ring not fitting, missing each others mouths when going in for the kiss, getting the vows wrong.

...and then we had a massive party. Best Day of my Life.

Holy Macarooni!

2011-11-27T12:11:00.000-08:00

My husband has returned from his little trip away (the second of only two nights we've spent apart since getting married) and to celebrate his return I baked smoked haddock with hollandaise, crunchy broccoli (the scrumptious sticks from M&S), tiny, delicious roast potatoes (it's all about chopping them real small so that they crisp up evenly) and a glass of Prosecco followed by a glass of red wine.

As a surprise for me, he returned home with a box of the most RIDICULOUS (-ly delicious) macaroons from his dad's girlfriend - who's just come back from Paris.

I quickly polished off the box - assuring Rich that they're exactly the type of cake he doesn't like. He believed me for a while then thought he should check (because secretly he loves cakes and biscuits and desserts but for some reason pretends not to like them - some deep-rooted emotional issue from childhood) and realised I was lying.

There was a raspberry one, which we both agreed was heavenly - light meringue sandwich with a thick jammy centre. As well as strawberries and cream, chocolate, coffee (not so keen) and pistachio (neither of us liked it - will probably still eat it later). But the creme de la creme was defo the vanilla custard one. There was only one and so I obviously ate the whole thing rather than saving Rich half - as he did with all the macaroons he pulled out to taste.

And macaroons are gluten-free so they're even more absolutely amazing.

What a treat.

Judy Blume Blog

2011-11-27T09:54:00.000-08:00

Just happened upon Judy Blume on Twitter and then discovered she writes a blog. Best discovery EVER. Like many girls my age (women?) - I learnt all about periods and bras and 'heavy petting' through Ms Blume's wonderful collection of novels.

LOVE Judy Blume.

Girlfriends are a girl's best friend

2011-11-27T09:14:00.000-08:00

In August I went to London for Carnival. At the ATG after-party I got talking with a girl in the loos. She stared at me intensely with her bright, wide-opened crystal blue eyes (inevitably widened by copious e's), whilst explaining why she hated girls and didn't have any girlfriends. She felt that males understood her better and were easier to be around - less emotional, more chilled out. To be honest - that is true of a lot of the guys I know compared to the girls - but she was really missing the point. Where women can be emotional (though I'm an exception to the rule with my stone-cold heart), and less 'chilled out' - they can also be caring, thoughtful, talkative, inquisitive, funny, intelligent, proactive... the list goes on. And, let's be honest, I don't think her guy friends 'understand her better' at all.

Mixed-sex friendships can be brilliant, though they often peter out when you're in a serious relationship, but girl-girl friendships are unbeatable. Spending the day and evening with a girlfriend last night - whilst Rich went off to visit his folks - we indulged in conversation that Rich would find utterly dull, we laughed at things that no one else would find funny, we shared personal secrets and advised each other on various aspects of our lives that required advice from a lady-friend.

Living in Frome, whilst all my girlfriends (and my sister) are in London, I've really missed these little ladies meetings that I partook in so often when living in London. My boat-party hen do - an afternoon on a long boat with all my favourite female friends - was absolutely perfect. The sun was shining, the sparkling wine was flowing (fast and lavishly) and the jokes and chatting were non-stop.

Diamonds are nice - but girlfriends are a girl's best friend.

A little gift...

2011-11-27T03:34:00.000-08:00

.... from me to me:

After the most amazing Saturday with El - drinking Prosecco and cocktails, laughing when the Frome Christmas lights failed to turn on after the Mayor's grand turning-on ceremony, delicious dinner at La Bisalta (where I discovered that the waiter I'd guessed was from Frome despite his 'Italian' accent - is definitely from Frome and not Italian. But he was then too embarrassed to serve us after the revelation) - we had a fairly early night and woke up feeling fresh and sprightly. We opened up Rook Lane, had a coffee in La Strada, then picked up some lovely roses and delicious salad materials for a healthy lunchtime feast.

Now we're back home, reading the Observer, eating clementines and getting ready for a brisk Sunday morning walk with El's fancy new camera (she needs to get in some practise and as I love having my photo taken - I'm the perfect person for her to practise on).

I LOVE spending time with my girlfriend.

Handyman Husband

2011-11-26T03:30:00.001-08:00

Whilst I'm blogging about my fave fashions and how I coordinated my umbrella with my legs last night - my super-handy husband is getting down and dirty in the house and garden.

We borrowed some chimney brushes to do a spot of DIY chimney-sweeping. I was hoping Rich would stick his head up and come out covered in black soot (though that's a bit unkind - because it would probably clog up his lungs and very quickly cease to be funny) - alas, he so cleverly propped the hoover head under his little sheet-tent (securely gaffer-taped to the fireplace) that little soot made its way into the house. I stood on the street, excitedly waiting for the brushes to pop out the top of the chimney - but it never happened. Rich seems to think that it's fine - that the pipes are clear enough for a little log fire - though I'm slightly dubious. We shall see...

My own little chimney sweep:

He's now excavating the garden so that we (he) can build some lovely, wide stone steps up to the patio that we (he) is going to lay:

... in the meanwhile, I've been drinking coffee, reading the Guardian, stripping and making up beds (Eleanor's coming to stay - VERY excited), scrubbing the bathrooms, opening the gallery, bumping into lovely people in coffee shops in Frome and generally having a very nice Saturday.

Leopard Print get-up

2011-11-26T03:24:00.000-08:00

In this blurry photograph, taken in the loos of our fave Indian restaurant in Frome - you may notice that my leopard print brolly (found in lost property - never been reclaimed - definitely my gain) matches my leopard print leggings. My husband just about spotted ('scuse the pun) the coordination but it was a man in the Archangel who was pissed off his head who really took delight in my outfit. "Wow - can you see that her umbrella matches her trousers?!" Well-observed.

'Christmas Shopping'

2011-11-25T09:04:00.001-08:00

Today I took the day off work to see my grandma, do some Christmas shopping, check in with my homeopath and sort myself out with some new clothes. I then decided it was too soon to be going over to grandma's after the last excruciating visit and so dropped her off my agenda. I also managed to swiftly drop Christmas shopping off the list when I realised that all I wanted to do was think about myself.

And so.... I had a lovely meeting with my homeopath - we talked about love and work and life (mine, of course) - then I got dressed up and hopped into the car, heading for Bath. I parked up outside the local convenience store and felt smug as I exchanged my £10 note for pound coins - as the car parks in Bath are extortionate and I didn't want to get caught out with no change.

The journey to Bath was rather pleasant - Fleet Foxes booming and autumn trees dazzling in gold and auburn shades. I remembered the way - though I've never done it alone and Rich and I have only done it twice or thrice - and even managed to combat the one-way system and (admittedly - I was on the verge of a panic attack) swing into the car park at the bottom of town. It was completely full except the roof of the indoor part so I wound my way up there, popped my pounds into the machine and strolled into town - a spring in my step. Again - feeling smug.

I returned my sister's phone call and we had a good natter whilst I perused the (disgusting to me - appealing to Lauren) sparkly Christmas clothes on display in H&M. I found myself a Christmas jumper and some very tight (very cheap) beige trousers then continued my exploration of the high street shops.

I cannot remember the last time I dedicated a day to shopping - probably when I was about 16. I never go clothes shopping - just pick up bits as and when - and today reminded me why. After about 10 minutes of walking around shops and trying on clothes, my mouth became unbearably dry. I was basically foaming around the lips. I also desperately needed the loo. Something of a irony, it seems - surely I'm discarding of over-flow fluid by going to the loo and yet my body is asking for more. Bladder control is torture for me.

Anyway - I found a loo, had a drink then decided to brave Big Bad Topshop. This shop used to be on a par with H&M - it was relatively cheap and always had something that looked good. In more recent years, however, it's become incredibly expensive - but now has an even BETTER selector of ladies garms. Living in Frome means I don't see much high street fashion so I was lapping up the smartly dressed student girls and boys and piling lovely clothes over my arms before marching into the changing rooms.

(This is beginning to sound rather materialistic. And that's because today I was M A T E R I A L I S T I C - I wanted to spend loads of money on clothes and I didn't give a shizer)

I got to the checkout and realised I didn't have enough money in my account. I made some phone calls. Nothing changed. I asked the lady if I could get a store card. She told me I was basically the first person EVER to request one - they normally push it on you when you're sick of shopping and feeling weak. In fact - that happened to me in June and I relished the 20% discount then promptly cancelled the card.

The shop assistant asked if I'd lived at my address for three years and I explained that I'd lived in Frome for 9 months, lived in Odcombe for a year before that, Hackney for a year before that, Crouch End for a year before that and Brighton for four years before that (but in three different houses). She looked rather perplexed. She phoned up to do a credit cheque and I was denied access to a Topshop card. I began to feel rather less smug.

I told the lady that I'd changed my name as I was married earlier in the year and she phoned up again. Same result. She asked me my husband's monthly salary and I told her that was not Topshop's business - apparently, because we're married, we are now assessed on our combined income. *Whatever* - I said, feeling like an independent laydee (which I am - I have my own salary and mortgage - albeit shared, again *whatever*) but my reluctance to hand over info about Rich's pay cheque didn't help my case and I was told I wouldn't be able to open a store card. All smugness now wholly dissipated, I was feeling utterly deflated and slightly angry.

I realised it was 15 minutes until my parking ticket expired. The kind shop assistant felt so bad that she'd kept me waiting for 40 minutes before telling me that I couldn't be trusted with a Topshop card that she offered me £20 off and that meant I had enough money in my account for the clothes so I agreed, paid, grabbed my bag, ran in the pissing rain to my car and sped out of the car park.

That was one of the most stressful hours of my life. Shopping is hard work. I'll probably leave it another 10 years before I try it again.

But I have come home with some real *treats*! And I don't have to worry about cancelling another impulse store card. Hoorah.

First new outfit - leopard print leggings and bright red, wooly jumper:

The other purchases are somewhat conservative in comparison - a lovely cream woolen jumper (loose-fitting) with a black ribbon tying up the neck at the back, to be worn on Christmas day (with the black snake skin leggings I'm yet to buy), a warm dusty pink scarf with fluffy pom poms and some skin-tight navy cords.

Nightmare Before Christmas

2011-11-22T08:59:00.001-08:00

Every now and again, a weirdly eerie air consumes Frome - hanging low over the rooftops - and seeping through every cobbled alley and paved avenue. Today is one of those days. I returned home from work and decided to go for a run (I went for one this morning but had to cut it short as I couldn't be bothered to do a proper circuit). The sky was beginning to darken but it looked like storm clouds rather than night-time darkness and so I set off. I am not scared of rainstorms but I am scared of the dark.

The first part of my run was easy - it always is in the evenings, perhaps because my body has been warming up throughout the day and doesn't have that morning rigidity resulting from sleeping in a draughty house. I reached the cross roads and pondered whether I should opt for the short route that I'd taken this morning - or push on to complete a longer circuit. I decided on the latter and swung a right, noticing a man who looked like Raoul Moat lurking on the corner. He was dressed top to toe in black. Creepy. I ignored his beady glare and continued on to the Frome ghetto.

I realised that it was actually getting really very dark and glanced up at the sky - where I noticed a heavy, dark grey stretch of sky fiercely positioned above my path. The deadly silence seemed to be portending just that - DEATH - and if I were still superstitious, I might believe that the weather was an indicator of a possible murder about to take place (me being the victim). Fortunately, I'm not and so I just merrily jogged on. That's not true - I was VERY scared. I sped up my pace and suddenly heard a jangle of keys, footsteps speeding up and heavy panting. I realised the keys were in my own hand and the footsteps and pants also belonged to me.

I went from jogging to running as fast as I could - when I noticed the foul stench of dog shit. "God, this area stinks - I thought to myself." I ran for a few minutes and thought: "Cor blimey - this area stinks like shit too." Then I realised I'd trodden in dog shit. I ran on until I reached a patch of grass then as I went cross-country, to remove the poo from my trainer, I slipped in another dog shit.

I was too scared about the encroaching darkness to spend long dilly-dallying on lawns, so I continued 'pon road and at last, reached a busy main road - with cars and dog walkers - and my sanity returned. I jogged through town then got to the penultimate road on my journey when I noticed a young man with evil eyes dressed in a full black outfit standing on the pavement, facing towards the road and not moving at all. He stared at me as I ran past and I absolutely legged it all the way to my front door.

I turned the key in the (stiff) lock and heard voices from inside. I remembered I'd left the radio on. I took a deep breath and slammed the door behind me.

Nightmare.

Currently loving...

2011-11-17T13:58:00.000-08:00

... the Mamas and the Papas. I return home from work at Rook Lane and turn on my record player, lower the needle onto my M & P's LP and listen whilst I work at job 2.

Dreams:

Free From mince pies

2011-11-15T11:48:00.000-08:00

The dairy-free/ gluten-free brand 'Free From' often gets it quite wrong and so when I spotted Free From mince pies on the supermarket shelf this evening - I was dubious. They were, however, novelty; the only ones I've seen, and so I bought them:

After walking through the freezing cold, pitch black car park and stuffing our shopping bags in the boot, I snuck a little mince pie from the pack and took into the car with me. I peeled off the foil casing and bit into a DELICIOUS-ly thin, crispy pastry before reaching the juicy, rich filling.

9/10

A winner.

What a treat. Only a shame that they definitely won't wind up in the reduced section with a '10 packs for 10p' sticker because gluten-free products are imperatively extortionate.

On the up side - Rich hates mince pies and so won't need to be sharing my 4 pies for £10 (or thereabouts) packets of Christmas delights.

Naughty but Nice

2011-11-15T09:45:00.000-08:00

Lauren and Denis bought me a tub of this danger spread from France:

It's caramelly and vanillery and sugary and scrumptious. But I'm ALLERGIC to it! I ignored my stomach cramps the first and second time that I ate it but this Saturday, after smearing it on slices of sweet, crunchy apple - I was crippled with stomach pains. Worst allergy ever. Don't even know what it has got in it that I can't handle and don't even care. Devastated.

But, to make up for it, I've been indulging in hot mugs of milk and this:

It's chocolatey and almondy and salty and delicious.

The French do know about sweet naughty treats.

Feeling Festive

2011-11-15T04:45:00.001-08:00

Despite my husband's Scrooge-like attitude to Christmas - I remain utterly devoted to the sparkles, mulled wine, mince pies (though will need to whip up some gluten-free ones myself this year) and general merriment.

Christmas decoration #1:

Rich is anti-Christmas trees - but I'm anti-Scrooge - so he'll be getting a nice little green surprise one day soon...

Pink Shoes and Wooly Cardis

2011-11-14T08:43:00.000-08:00

I'm currently into pink Converse:

And big, wooly cardigans:

At the Chapel

2011-11-11T06:40:00.000-08:00

Today I'm on holiday as it is 11/11/11 and therefore cause for celebration. After dropping Richie at work, I listened to Desert Island Discs (today's castaway was Francesca Simon - a writer, so I was particularly interested), then Woman's Hour - before setting off on a fat run. After accidentally discovering Frome's ghetto last night, on a pitch black jog - with drizzle obstructing my vision - I re-traced my steps this morning and realised that it's not really ghetto. I'm just scared of the dark.

I returned home, did some chores, put on my 80s garms:

...then drove to Castle Cary to meet my grandma. I was in very good spirits - having enjoyed a relaxed morning, two interesting radio programmes and a some exercise. I pressed the big bell on grandma's little bungalow (she lives in sheltered accommodation) and stood outside waiting. Alas - grandma was not in such high spirits. The length of time it takes her to answer the door is an indicator of her mood. When she's happy - she stands at the window, waiting for me, then springs to the hallway - where the door is already open - and invites me in. Today she left me hanging for a good few mins before slowly peering through a gap and then reluctantly making the gap just wide enough for me to squeeze in.

I asked her how she was - wrong question to ask someone who is clearly in a very bad mood. She listed her (mostly imagined) ailments then introduced me to her new cat. I asked her where the old one was (second stupid question - it had obviously died - otherwise why would she have a replacement?) and shrunk down into the 2-inch thick carpet whilst she explained how and why her cat had been put down. I didn't like her cat cat anyway - it was huge and scratched everything - including my legs. But I chose to keep that to myself.

I helped her into the car whilst she complained about how low down it was. Fortunately she was so fixated on the distance between the pavement and the passenger seat that she didn't notice how filthy our car is. I drove to Bruton to check out the town, as I'd never been there, and take grandma for lunch at At the Chapel. Slight lack of planning, and a crap road map, necessitated a little improvisation with my route and heavily relying on my sense of direction. Fortunately, I've actually got a rather good sense of direction (Rich would disagree - and because he thinks I'm so lacking in directional comprehension he lowers my confidence - but when he's not with me - I'm like a human Sat Nav).

And so we got to Bruton swiftly, and with no wrong turns. I pulled up and grandma told me that she would not be walking. I explained that it was two minutes down the road but she said she wanted to be dropped outside and so I dropped her then parked up.

At the Chapel is a beautifully converted chapel slap bang in the middle of Bruton. The huge windows at the back look out over the castle and let in masses of light - which bounces off the pristine white walls. The high ceiling means bad acoustics (doesn't bother me - but grandma wasn't impressed) and there is a lovely modern chandelier-type ornament with glass balls dangling down the centre of the chapel.

The staff are friendly and attentive and there was a real buzz - surprisingly - as it was Friday lunchtime, though the clientele did look mostly like rather affluent retirees. But there was one incredibly loud posh girl sat next to us - who garnered a fair few dirty looks from my angry grandma, but they were warranted. As I slipped out of my grandma's monologue about my immediate and extended family and how fantastic the latter are and how useless the former are - I tuned in briefly to the posh girl's soliloquy - being performed to her spotty teenage boyfriend who was so smitten with her, I don't think he was actually listening to what she was saying. If he had been - he probably wouldn't be so smitten.

After 10 minutes of trying to dodge both one-sided conversations, my lunch arrived: Beenleigh Blue, pear, chicory, dandelion and walnut salad. Scrumptious. The ingredients were fresh and tasty - crunchy chicory, deliciously soft, fleshy pear - mild blue cheese (thank God - I often order it though I don't really like it, in an attempt to forge a relationship with it - we're getting there) and pretty dandelion leaves. Grandma had field mushrooms and scrambled eggs on toasted sourdough. It was on the breakfast menu, rather than the lunch menu, but after rudely telling the waitress that it was the only she wanted - the chef kindly agreed to whip it up for her. She loved it.

After much deliberation about which coffee to order, the waitress bought us two delicious lattes ("More like cappuccino." grandma concluded. More than once). I then swiftly paid the bill and made for the exit before grandma could find anything else which wasn't to her liking. We did a spot of window shopping and I slipped into Phillips and Skinner, a retro furniture shop that I've wanted to go to for ages, but had to make a hasty exit after a group of people didn't move out of grandma's way and she started to get fired up.

We got back in the car, pulled up outside grandma's and I gave her a big hug then drove off quickly - knowing that I'll soon forget how disappointing our lunch-date was and book in another. With family - tiffs are like water off a duck's back - it quickly slips off into the distance but the duck will soon dive back in for more.

And so now back to my one-day holiday. Coffee at the Little Red Cafe, I think, before a rummage round the charity shops and then back in the car to collect Richie and Tom - our guest for the weekend.

Autumn Sunset in Somerset

2011-11-10T03:35:00.000-08:00

Elevenses

2011-11-08T08:12:00.001-08:00

Rich has managed to zap almost all of my superstitious beliefs - I'd go so far as to say that I'm not even really very spiritual anymore.* But he has not managed to touch my time and date-related superstition. I still shudder when I look at the (electrical) clock and it is 16.16 or 11.11. And so at 11.11 this Friday (11/11) - I will be celebrating. I am taking the day off work and I will be having a celebratory coffee from the Little Red Cafe at 11.11 on 11/11/11. Then I will be taking my grandma for lunch at 'At the Chapel' in Bruton.

Cynics, like Rich, don't get to celebrate the wonders of times and dates with me. His loss. Grandma's gain.

*I'm not sure my loss of spiritualism is a good thing. I need to ponder this further then maybe re-trace my spiritual path. My mum would be mortified to read that my husband had affected my spirituality.

Lovely weekend...

2011-11-07T09:06:00.002-08:00

This weekend we were meant to go to North Petherton Carnival (Bridgwater Carnival 2nd day in) but because of the absolutely tragic crash on the M5 - it was cancelled.

We drove over to Rich's dad's farm anyway and sat by the fire, sipping champagne and catching up. We then got a lift to North Petherton - with Maeve and Rob - and went to Rich's aunt Rachel's house for a knees up. There were lots of friendly faces there and I moved onto cider before embarking on a lengthy discussion about alternative medicine. Thoroughly enjoyable. In the meantime, Rich was entertaining the party by meandering with a weird chicken on his shoulder:

There was a lovely fire in the garden (though none of the men in the house thought so and they took it in turns to prove how macho they were by fanning it and attempting to make the flames bigger) and a young man playing the guitar. We had a wander down to a horrible pub full of old people sitting in silence and they tried to kick us out because we didn't have a ticket. I don't think they realised that Carnival had been cancelled and that our custom would be of benefit to them. We left half-finished drinks and then found someone to drive us back to the farm.

On Sunday, I walked out of the little hut we were staying in, and the sky was blue and cloudless: perfect autumn Sunday. After breakfast, Rich and I embarked on the first of three walks:

The colours of the leaves in the forest we walked through were incredible and so I made a little video but can't seem to get it from my phone onto the computer.

We went back, drank tea, met Maeve and went on walk two. Returned to the farm, had a delicious lunch of roast pork with scrumptious vegetables and a glass of red wine, then went on walk three.

We waved goodbye and drove home with the Fleet Foxes playing in the background, smiling and feeling rather jolly.

After a pint of ale in our local, we rushed home through the cold, breezy night and then snuggled up on the sofa.

What a delightful weekend.

YES

2011-11-07T09:06:00.001-08:00

Somerset Life

2011-11-07T07:55:00.001-08:00

An article was written in the Somerset Life Magazine about Frome and the arts and I was interviewed. Read it here.

Unfortunately, after an hour-long interview - a rather simple quote was plucked for the article. And the online version is even shorter. But good publicity for Rook Lane, nonetheless.

Letter of the day...

2011-11-07T07:51:00.000-08:00

... is 'R'

I've just been thinking about the things that inspire me most and I've concluded that they are:

1. Reading (newspapers, poetry, novels, letters, menus, music)
2. Running (undoubtedly the best way, for me, to stimulate creativity)
3. Rich (my husband)

Homage to Joni Mitchell

2011-11-07T07:19:00.000-08:00

Happy Birthday Joni

2011-11-07T06:43:00.000-08:00

Today is the 68th birthday of Joni Mitchell - my idol, musical love-of-my-life:

There are far too few videos of Joni performing. But this just adds to my curiosity...

Happy Birthday Joni.

xx

Tell me the TRUTH

2011-11-07T00:44:00.000-08:00

Yesterday evening a nice, jolly pamphlet was popped through our letter box. On the front it says: TELL ME THE TRUTH and there are photos of six smiling faces (actually, at first glance they are smiling, on closer inspection - most of them look either possessed or rather dazed).

We opened up the glossy leaflet and it was addressed: 'My dear friend,' - harmless, so far, it then goes on to say: 'May I lovingly tell you that one day you will die and open your eyes in another world: either in.....

- A state of supreme happiness and joy, exceeding anything ever known in this life, known as.... HEAVEN

- A state of unbelievable anguish, pain and torment, exceeding anything ever known in this life, known as.... HELL

THERE IS NO ANNIHILATION!
THERE IS NO RE-INCATNATION!
THERE IS NO ESCAPE!'

(Alarm bells).

It then goes on to quote various passages from the Bible and to remind you that 'no matter how good you have been or how wicked you may be, you are a sinner in God's sight'. But, fortunately, if you 'Come to him confessing your sins. He has said "Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out" John 6:37. Repentance is absolutely necessary for Salvation.'

The designers of these pamphlets are failing miserably in their attempt to recruit new church-goers. They are preying on the vulnerable and segregating themselves from secular society.

On the back of the leaflet, there are some bullet points entitled: How to be sure of Hell and then Free Offers! of Bibles, further reading, spiritual 'help' and Christian books.

Rich is sure that this has come through our door following a discussion he had with a preacher who came knocking. He explained his atheism and they were not impressed. I am willing to accept all forms of religion but I expect members of different religions to respect that we are not religious.

That pamphlet is offensive to the maximum.

Winter is all about...

2011-11-03T01:45:00.000-07:00

Thick, woollen socks with watertight boots (imperative that they have a proper sole - no pumps, laydees):

And hobbies:

Halloween Update

2011-10-31T12:02:00.000-07:00

Have had three sets of trick-or-treaters:

1. VERY sweet little toddler in a pumpkin suit with a dummy hanging out his mouth. His bro had a scary mask and lunged into my delicate ceramic bowl - ready to shovel my Roses into his pumpkin lantern - but his mum swiftly stopped him and explained the Halloween etiquette - only one per house. Good parenting.

2. A huddle of young teenagers - maybe 12-years-old. One had a HUGE skeleton head and we were very impressed. Fairly polite. Took one sweet each.

3. A grown woman. Not dressed up. She told us it wasn't for her - that her cousins were at home ill and couldn't come out so she was doing it for them. Rich selected a chocolate for her and handed it to her as if letting her stick her mitt in our Roses might contaminate the rest.

Number Three has put me off answering the door now.

Also - just had a disaster realisation that I'm ALLERGIC to strawberry dreams. I ate five (fairly spread out) and got a fat headache. Worse thing ever. Soon to be cured by the Paracetamol I just popped, however, and then I'll move onto the toffees.

Halloween

2011-10-31T10:01:00.000-07:00

We have a little pumpkin on our dining room table that Rich was given by someone at work. Strangely, it is from Tesco - rather than grown in his colleague's backyard, or allotment, but whatevs - it's kind of considerate. Although it's still sitting on the table, clad with Tesco sticker and very much un-carved.

Last year we were given a load of pumpkins by Rich's dad - they were grown on his farm and plucked from a mound of variously-sized ripe (probably organic) pumpkins. Rich scooped out the innards and carved away until he'd created two very sweet little pumpkin faces. This year we are either demotivated by the fact that the pumpkin came from Tesco. Or less inspired to get involved in Halloween celebrations.

When living in the somewhat remote village of Odcombe (this time last year), we were pretty sure that we'd only have a handful of cute, squeaky children trick or treating - and we were right. We were quite excited listening to the pitter patter of tiny children in witch and ghost outfits as they approached our heavy oak door, giggling, before tapping gently and then saying their piece about giving them something nice to eat (out of time - even cuter).

This year, however, we're in the less rural town of Frome. Just as quaint - but home to more than a handful of rather unruly youths. There is smashed glass everywhere at the moment. And it's not public art.

And so I had the dilemma of deciding whether to ignore all knocks on the door after dark (it can only be trick-or-treaters as we never have any unexpected visitors. And - for the record - I like it this way) or invest in some sugary treats to delight the delightful children and bribe the not-so-delightful ones. I chose the latter option:

It was between shiny, fluorescent, powdery sweets or a box of chocolates and I, subconsciously knowing that kids prefer sweets to Roses chocolates, opted for chocolates (quite consciously knowing that I prefer chocolates).

Then my dilemma was - shall I pull out all of the Roses (now called 'strawberry dreams' - WTF?) so that I can indulge myself - or leave them in the bowl so that the colours look nicer? I pulled them all out, ate three, then put the rest back in - *compromise*.

Anyway - I'm now going to cook a purposely un-Halloweeny meal of prawn and pea linguine (gluten-free pasta - obvs) then will hand Rich the sweet bowl so that he can meet and greet any visitors we may have and save me the hassle of having to wash egg out of my hair when a naughty yoof dashes one at our door and gets my head instead (I was always one of those girls at school who got the football in the head - though that was 1. because I was never playing football and 2. Because I was always watching the boys from the sidelines - trying to distract them with my somewhat unsophisticated eyelash fluttering).

Happy Halloween. May yours be more festive than mine.

Go Jessie!

2011-10-30T14:55:00.001-07:00

Clare's Law

2011-10-26T08:34:00.000-07:00

I have a new-found appreciation of the Home Secretary, Theresa May, after reading about her plan to create a scheme that would enable women to check whether their prospective (or current) partner has a history of domestic violence.

An article in the Independent (see here) discusses the rise of internet dating, which is one of the factors that can lead to women dating men who have a history entirely unbeknownst to them - that can include past convictions of violence against their partners.

Human Rights groups will argue that everyone has a right to privacy and a past but in today's society - where we no longer couple up with someone in our community, who we've known our whole lives - there is a much greater risk of winding up with someone who has a history that would be of concern, were we to be informed of it.

The beginning of a relationship is exciting because you are getting to know your new partner, discovering what you like and don't like about each other - what you admire and what you disapprove of. However, for a relationship to be sustainable - there has to be absolute trust and so if your lover's been charged with assault in the past - I think he should be open about this. And if he can't be - he's protecting a pretty huge secret, which will most likely destroy the relationship even if it never comes out.

Violent people may be able to overcome the underlying issue that is resulting in their outbursts, rapists may be able to never rape again after having done it once, murderers may kill and then never kill again - but, whatever the crime, a partner in love should have the right to know who they are embarking on a relationship with. If they believe a person can conform - they'll give it a go. If they don't, they won't. And that is the consequence a murderer/ rapist/ abuser/ violent partner will have to confront.

Women are unarguably more vulnerable than men in relationships - though domestic violence against men occurs, it is comparatively miniscule. Women deserve the right to feel safe with men, to feel safe in relationships and to feel safe when using the internet to find a man.

I back Theresa on this one.

Books

2011-10-24T06:45:00.000-07:00

I empathise with a woman on Twitter who recently wrote something along the lines of: 'I don't know whether the feeling of satisfaction you get after reading a captivating novel is as great as the disappointment you feel at no longer being able to read it.'

I have read a series of very enjoyable books over the past few months. It's Monday, and I'm suffering from the weekend, so I can only go back as far as Jonathan Franzen's 'Freedom', Rachel Litzchenstein and Iain Sinclair's 'Rodinskey's Room', Lionel Shriver's 'So much for that' and now Haruki Murakami's 'What I talk about when I talk about running' - but each of these books have engrossed me and left me slightly grieving on completion.

After reading 'We need to talk about Kevin' (a long time ago) - I didn't think Lionel Shriver would be able to create another novel as emotional, gripping and beautifully written. But although 'So much for that' is nothing like her prize-winning tale of Kevin – it is equally as gratifying. It tells the story of a man who is obsessed with the idea of leaving his life in America and setting off for the ‘Afterlife’ with the proceeds of the sale of his business. On discovering his wife has terminal cancer, and will need the health insurance he receives through his menial 9-5 job, he relinquishes his dreams of paradise to care for his wife.

Shriver’s characters become, as with any good book, your companions – as you learn of their plights and quests. I was so drawn into this book that I had to steal an extra ½ hour in the morning to delve into it before work. And at lunchtime. And after work. Though it was incredibly sad in parts, it was also funny and insightful. I was a little bit lost after finishing the last sentence.

But then Haruki Murakami’s autobiographical book about his love of running and strict daily routine (and how both these things inspire him to write novels) dropped through my letter box. I began it over the weekend and I’m hooked. His writing is simple and eloquent – no fancy language – just sentences constructed to convey his feelings in the most digestible way possible. Each time I go back to it – it makes me want to go for a fat run then write a novel. Truly inspiring.

Michael Kiwanuka

2011-10-24T05:58:00.000-07:00

Fairytale Weddings

2011-10-15T02:41:00.000-07:00

I've just had to un-follow someone on Twitter. I'm not sure how I started following her in the first place, as she writes about crafty weddings - perhaps one of those tweeters that you notice is following you so you follow them back to be polite - but I just followed a link to her blog and she was discussing fairytale weddings. She says that every girl can have the fairytale wedding they've always dreamed of because DISNEY and BARBIE now have wedding dress ranges. WTF!!!

For one - not every little girl dreams of getting married. I certainly didn't. And I'm now very grateful to my mum for never letting me have any barbie dolls - as this spared me the embarrassment of looking up to a DOLL and believing that if my life mirrored hers - I'd meet my prince, have a lavish wedding and live happily-ever-after. I loved my wedding in a field. I didn't crave a fairytale pumpkin to take me to a church and then send me off into the night with my prince charming - white teeth gleaming and pink blusher glowing.

The little girls who play with Barbie and Ken and spend their childhood and young adulthood dreaming of being wed in huge meringue dresses and parading around DISNEYLAND - should be pitied. Gender-neutral child-rearing - offering boys and girls the same toys and tales, where the girl can be the hero and roles are reversible - is the first step towards raising a daughter who dreams of greater things than meeting the man of her dreams and having a flouncy white wedding in a theme park.

I'm in shock. It scares me that grown women are blogging about Disney-themed weddings and Barbie wedding dresses.

La Bisalta

2011-10-15T01:52:00.001-07:00

Last night I took Richie on a dinner-date. After a glass of Sauvignon at the Cornerhouse, we ventured to the rather curious-looking La Bisalta, an Italian restaurant in Frome:

The mint-green door looked firmly shut - with a rather fierce lion-head brass knocker - but we pushed it hard and it opened into a warm, carpeted hallway. The owner, wife of the Italian chef, greeted us with a lovely big smile and showed us through to what felt like their sitting room. We settled into a comfy, squashy, velvety sofa and a very smartly-dressed barman brought menus over to us. His accent was vaguely Italian/ vaguely Somerset - but we decided he was probably from Frome.

The menu is reassuringly small - two fish dishes, a selection of meat dishes - steaks, pork with mozzarella, veal escallop and a couple of others. The lovely lady read the specials from memory in a perfect-sounding Italian accent and we were sold on the avocado with gorgonzola and cream sauce. I ordered monkfish and Rich opted for the steak. No surprise - Rich orders a steak wherever he possibly can.

The smart barman popped the (very nice) Prosecco, poured us two glasses and then pushed the bottle into a free-standing ice-bucket (we've noticed that other Frome restaurants don't bother with this but it's important when you're spending good money on white or sparkling wine).

After about 15 minutes (perfect pre-dinner drinks time), we were lead through to the dining room, which looks out over a surprisingly big garden, full of flowers and foliage - though it was too dark to get a real good look - and a decent-sized terrace (we'll be going back for an al fresco summer evening meal. Defs). A bowl of bread and curls of lovely bright yellow butter sat waiting on our table - alas - I'm not allowed gluten and Rich isn't really into bread. It remained mostly untouched (until Rich used it to wipe up the sauce from his steak meal).

The avocado starter surpassed all expectations. Creamy, cheesy delicious sauce, with lots of pepper, on huge slices of deliciously-ripe avocado. My meaty monkfish came with a rich tomato sauce - of fresh and sun-dried tomatoes - and a side order of salty, roasted new potatoes, salted spinach, perfectly cooked carrots and crunchy mange tout. It was truly scrumptious. But the pièce de résistance was Rich's steak. He asked for medium rare but slightly more on the rare side and that is exactly what he got. A tender sirloin, with shrimps on top (sounded slightly odd - works SO well) and dripping in a cream and brandy sauce. OMG. I shouldn't swear on here but it was fucking *amazing*.

We opted out of dessert (I've become pleasingly less interested in desserts since meeting Rich) so just sat and finished our Prosecco and stared lovingly (drunkenly) into each others eyes, talking about life. The staff were totally patient - not pushing us out to get the next group in. I went to the (pink, carpeted) loos for a peek then we were handed back our coats by the lovely lady and she stood and waved goodbye as we left.

That was the best eating-experience I've had in a long while. I woke up this morning with a mild-hangover but in a bright mood.

Life is very good.

10/10

Women in Art

2011-10-14T08:39:00.001-07:00

All I want for Christmas...

2011-10-14T00:42:00.001-07:00

...is this:

(and a vintage pearl ring)

Prostitution

2011-10-13T09:27:00.000-07:00

I have had numerous debates with people - both men and women - about my opposition to the legalisation of prostitution. One particularly emotional argument was with a female artist who was doing a project to promote making sex-work legal. Because it makes it 'safer' and means it can be 'regulated'. She pissed me off. She was invited, by a fellow journalism student, into LCC to draw portraits of people who supported her project. But she started drawing me without asking and when I realised what she was doing I got super-angry. We got into a long, heated discussion about why she was pro and I was anti and she was so under-researched - we both grew red in the face (me from anger, her from embarrassment).

One issue that arises time and time again, and halts my argument (in the eyes of the opposition), is the fact that I have never sold my body. This often results in the pro-prostitution person concluding that I can't possibly speak for prostitutes when I say that prostitution is not about 'choice' but about coercion, addiction, insecurity, abuse, violence - because I have never been a prostitute.

So for all those unarguably ignorant supporters of prostitution and the legalisation of it - you should read the blog of a real-life ex-prostitute here.

One post that I found particularly disturbing was this one:

Language Games

When it comes to prostitution, we wrap it up pretty. We use language to distance ourselves from the reality of the situation. The language of the sex industry, of those in favour of legalising prostitution, minimises the pain of being a prostitute, of selling your body. It facilitates. With the language of 'work', 'jobs', 'clients', we can look straight through the pain and suffering of the women and teenagers who are caught there.

A friend of mine had to debate whether prostitution should be legalised as part of her college course. She was the only one who argued against it. The rest of the group spoke of safety and choice and a woman's right to 'work'. They didn't look at it as a personal issue. Yet what is prostitution if not personal? As a prostitute, I tried to distance myself from what was happening to my body - I used a different name, and tried to numb out with alcohol and drugs and a conscious effort. It never works.

The truth is, in prostitution, men gave me money to use my body. They told me sometimes repulsive, sometimes frightening, things that they wanted to do to me. And that I'd like it. I was told he wanted to fuck my arse until it bled and then stick it up my cunt. That he wanted to tie me up all helpless and watch other men rape me and abuse me til he came.

The fact that he used my 'working' name didn't matter. He was looking at me when he said it, touching me when he said it, hurting me when he said it. My body, my vagina, my rectum, are not distant, abstract concepts. They are real, they are a part of me, a living breathing, feeling woman. When they tear, it hurts me. When they bruise, it hurts me. When I was fucked again and again, hard, to fulfil the fantasy of the punters, it was reality for me.

The language of the sex industry, so widely accepted and used in debates across the country by people who have never experienced prostitution, and are comfortable in knowing they likely never will, is a whitewash. No other 'job' leaves women traumatised, with PTSD, a suicide rate far above the average. (see Demand Change website for Home Office statistics). Using that language kills the debate and silences the reality of women's suffering.

Freedom of speech talk from the so-called liberals is BS. I've never 'worked' with a woman who was free to tell the truth. To live as a prostitute, to survive, you have to construct a careful network of lies, even to yourself. It's known as denial. How else can you pick yourself up in the morning still sore from the day before (joke: 'still walking like John Wayne') and get back out there?

It is the antithesis of glamour. The reality is bodily fluids and smells and KY jelly and femfresh wipes and sponges in your vagina to be able to 'work' during your period. And pain from lots of sex and sore nipples cos they're pretty rough with you, men trying to pull a fast one and stick it up your arse if you're not looking and take their condoms off. Offering more if you let them in sans condom.

It hurts me when people who know nothing of the reality of prostitution throw their support behind the sex industry driven call to legalise it. I wouldn't legalise prostitution for the same reason I wouldn't legalise heroin: it destroys a human being, physically, mentally and spiritually.

Some nice things...

2011-10-13T08:41:00.000-07:00

Smoked haddock, poached egg, al dente broccoli (happy accident) and creamy mash (Rich is the KING of mash):

Danni and Hen coming to visit us and laughing at my jokes. Joke - it's clear the joke is Henry's in this one - check out the smug mug:

Our freshly painted kitchen with my freshly painted shelves:

My other fresh shelves:

Little Richie caving in after stubbornly refusing to laugh at my silly faces:

FYI - his shirt is NOT pin-striped - my camera-phone is blurring the gingham for a laugh.

On Eating

2011-10-13T05:26:00.001-07:00

On a recent trip to my lovely local (independent) bookshop, Hunting Raven - after failing to find a WWI book to satisfy Rich's insatiable appetite for all things war-related - I picked up Susie Orbach's 'On Eating'. It's a sliver of a book but only cost £6.99. Bargain. Initially I thought it was meant for people with eating disorders but as Susie is my fave feminist and everything she writes is gospel to me - I bought it anyway. It is actually for anyone who is interested in eating and how to eat well.

Orbach briefly touches on the current epidemic of chaotic eaters (people who eat too much or not enough and have a bad attitude towards eating and food) but mostly discusses how to eat healthily. Diets, as we all know, don't work. She explains that starving yourself slows your metabolism - as does stuffing yourself. In order to attain, and maintain, your perfect weight - you should follow some very simple rules:

1. Eat when you are hungry.
2. Eat the food your body is hungry for.
3. Find out why you eat when you aren't hungry.
4. Taste every mouthful.
5. Stop eating the moment you are full.

You have to learn to listen to your body and not mistake boredom/ anxiety/ tiredness/ a broken heart etc for hunger. Hunger is when your stomach needs food - it is as basic a need as the need to urinate. When you start to really recognise hunger - you have to visualise what you are hungry for. No food is off bounds - if you are really hungry for cake, that is fine - just make sure it's hunger not habit - and that there is no under-lying emotion urging making you crave cake.

If you do reach for certain types of food, or food full stop, when you are emotional or angry - you have to notice those feelings and disassociate them with the act of eating. If you feel sad, eating a chocolate bar won't make you feel less sad. It may distract you temporarily but the sadness is simply masked and will pop back up once the chocolate bar has been devoured.

Once you have decided what you need to eat, start eating it and make sure you taste, and savour, every single mouthful. If you are watching telly, reading, talking - you won't notice what you're putting in your body and won't feel satisfied. This will lead to over-eating. You have to concentrate hard on the flavours and textures so that you will know exactly when you have had enough. And then you stop eating.

Orbach admits this can be difficult if you are eating with friends and don't want to appear rude but maintains that it is more important that you are enjoying your food and not over-eating - or going without - to please other people. I think I'm already fairly good at listening to my body, eating what I want - when I want - and stopping when I'm full. But I do treat myself to some chocolate discs with hundreds and thousands, or a Milky Way Bar, if I've had a bad day. Will have to put an end to that and punch a wall instead, or something.

Anyway - that's it. Simples.

The etiquette of flower buying

2011-10-13T01:12:00.001-07:00

Flowers are lovely to receive. But NOT as an alternative to saying sorry. The only time I remember having been bought flowers (from anyone who's not my dad) was from an ex-boyfriend who was trying to say sorry. He arrived at my house with a pathetic bunch of wilting garage-bought carnations and downturned lips. I gave him a dirty look and then swiftly shut the door in his face. I let him keep the flowers. He probably gave them to his mum.

Flowers, in my opinion, should be spontaneous - in fact - all gifts should be spontaneous. If your lover is on your mind and you think of something that will make them smile - get it/ make it/ do it for them. The burden of gift-buying around Christmas and birthdays weighs heavy on our shoulders and so I'm glad that Rich and I have a 'relaxed' attitude towards giving each other presents. I have asked for a pearl ring for Christmas - but it could just be for November. Just to say 'I love you'.

And so to a somewhat abrupt conclusion (I am due at work) - only buy flowers for someone who likes them, to say 'I love you' - not 'sorry' and do it fairly often because it really will be just as special and appreciated every time.

As it's poetry season...

2011-10-13T00:44:00.000-07:00

... I thought I should post a poem.

Flowers

by Wendy Cope

Some men never think of it.
You did. You'd come along
And say you'd nearly bought me flowers
But something had gone wrong.

The shop was closed. Or you had doubts -
The sort that minds like ours
Dream up incessantly. You thought
I might not want your flowers.

It made me smile and hug you then.
Now I can only smile.
Biut, look, the flowers you nearly bought
Have lasted all this while.

Flower Appreciation

2011-10-05T13:25:00.000-07:00

Ellie Jauncey is a banging florist. She whipped up this floral storm for my sister and her boyfriend Denis:

As I'm too far away to deliver any gifts myself, this is the second bunch Ellie has kindly put together and delivered for me. Check her blog here.

Our lovely local cinema!

2011-10-05T10:36:00.000-07:00

Last night Rich and I went to our wonderful local, independent cinema - the Westway - to see One Day. I wrote about it here.

The best thing about it was the wine. I seriously savoured that Merlot - I dreamed about it. I then woke up dribbling because it was still on my mind. Scrumptious red wine. It's something to do with the lack of iron at this end of the month.