Santa is missing

Think Father Christmas is down the chimney, leaving Rudolph and sleigh waiting patiently.

Christmas jumpers gone mad

Have you noticed jumpers of a certain kind are big this Christmas? I myself have resisted. It does make you wonder what starts a trend and makes everyone decide they need to buy a Christmas jumper? Is it something in the water?

Merry Christmas and a new pair of eyes please

Apparently David and I have reached that certain age. Do you remember when your mum and dad started to place things which had very teeny tiny writing a long way away from their eyes and then would bring the writing in and out to try to focus in order to read it and you would look at them as if they were mad? Yes? Well we've reached that age.

We decided to treat ourselves to some sherry for Christmas (perhaps another sign we have reached a certain age) but trying to read the labels of the various types available proved quite troublesome. Take the bottle label out. Bring it back in. Look up for better light. In, out, in, out. Let's just get this one and hope for the best.

I should have known when the optician a few months ago told me I had reached that age in eyes when it all starts going down hill. She didn't say that in so many words but that's what she meant.

Oh well there's always the sherry.

Merry Christmas to my small band of, I hope, happy readers. Get in touch more in 2014.

Flippy floppy duvet

It happened again last night. I get into bed. I get all cosy and then realise I have a flappy floppy bit of duvet. You know what I mean. The bit of your duvet cover that isn't filled with lovely soft voluptuous duvet. It's a void and it's really difficult to refill it without going to a lot of trouble.

I usually get it at the side of the duvet; my daughter had it at the top of the duvet the other evening. It's annoying.

You either have to do a lot of shaking of said duvet or get your hand right in there to pull the duvet into the empty space. And it's amazing how you can leave a lovely cosy bed in the morning and then by the evening flippy floppy syndrome has struck seemingly out of nowhere. Be gone with you flappy duvet cover bits.

A big branch painted white with fairy lights wrapped round

Have you noticed how the trend this Christmas is for white painted trees with embedded lights that look very much like a big branch painted white with fairy lights wrapped round but cost a shed load of money? The good ones look very tasteful and I was tempted for 5 minutes before I did indeed realise they are just big synthetic branches painted white with lights wrapped round. So I have rescued a big branch from a tree that next door was having pruned and have spray-painted it white and wrapped lights round. Boom boom. It looks fantastically festive to say it's just a big branch painted white with lights wrapped round. A very big and wonderful British department store eat your heart out.

I'll answer to anything

My son and daughter got a hand-delivered Christmas card from a neighbour's little boy this afternoon. He is in the school year between my two. The little love got my son's name right if spelt slightly wrongly but had rechristened my daughter completely. She will from henceforth be known as her new moniker of Ella. Bless!

I had to giggle as we've all been there. I have a few friends who I haven't seen in years. Thus far I always remember their names on the Christmas card but often struggle with their partner's name or their children's. No doubt I have made a boo-boo in years past or perhaps every year.

My friend told me how she always sends a card to her neighbour called Graham. She has sent one for 6 years to him and his family. This December she found out his name is Paul. She was mortified and apologised profusely. Graham's Paul's family has found this hilarious for 6 years and has insisted she continues to call him Graham. It has become a Christmas tradition to wait for the Christmas card for Graham.

Would she come?

When I was little my auntie and uncle would take me to Harry Ramsden's Fish and Chip Restaurant (the original one at Guiseley before it got all commercial and lost its appeal). They would have a huge and sparkly tree with loads of presents underneath.

We would queue and be shown to our table. We would order and eat but all the time I was watching the tree and I was watching the supervisor. She would come up to tables that had children and invite them to come to the tree to chose a present. It was so exciting. I can feel the anticipation even now. I would spend the whole meal wondering when she would come to our table. I couldn't go to the loo - she may have come while I was there. Would she remember me?

"When is she coming?" "Has she forgotten me?" "Will there be any presents left?" - all questions addressed to my auntie.

Of course she would always invite me to the tree. It was fab. Fish n chips and mushy peas and a pressie.

Please don't change your minds!



(photo by Sonya Smyth)

Phew! We took the children to see Santa last week and when asked what they would like him to bring them on Christmas Eve there were no surprises. It was all according to their lists, made and sent in November.

The elves have done their work and don't have to make any last minute adjustments. Nor will there be any slightly disappointed children on Christmas morn.

Santa got lost

Warning: this post contains Christmas spoiler.

Yesterday evening was my children's school's Christmas fund raising fair. For my sins I am one of the chief organisers. We always invite Santa to fly in from up the road... the North Pole into his grotto and give out Christmas hopes and little pressies. He helps raise quite a bit of money every year. Bless.

Last year we did the same and had everything under control. Hook-a-stocking was looking festive; the mulled wine was fuming nicely; the chocolate tombola ready to roll. Father Christmas had arrived with 15 minutes to spare before the doors were due to open. Erm....as you would imagine Santa often needs a change of clothes before he starts a new present-giving shift. And so I just popped into the caretaker's office to retrieve the Santa costume, the safest place to stash a very valuable prop or so I thought.

Twas not there. I searched. It still wasn't there. Another frantic look. No definitely not bloody there. I popped my head round the door to see a queue of 100 people with accompanying little people waiting to come in.

Envisioned headlines: 'Children left crying in the playground as Father Christmas fails to show.' 'New PTA Chair lets down hundreds of children'. 'Santa gets lost on way to School Fair'. I could see the playground awash with parental resentful eyes burning into me on Monday morning drop-off.

For 10 long long minutes that red and white costume with black boots and a snow-white beard went awol. 10 long long minutes when I thought I might have to emigrate. 10 long minutes when the excitement of lots of children held in the balance. And then it was found.

It had been put in the bins by someone - after all it was just a cardboard box with SANTA's OUTFIT written all over it. I usually forgive and I usually forget but sometimes it's just too heinous a crime to forgive and forget.

This year I took no chances. Costume retrieved from PTA store 2 weeks ago; placed under lock and key at my house; transferred covertly to school yesterday afternoon; secured within grotto until Santa walked flew in. Job done but not forgiven and not forgotten.

A settee made me cry

As regular readers of my blog will know, my mum had to go into an elderly people's home 2 years ago. My brothers and I make sure she gets a visit every day. As a consequence of this unfortunate move we had to empty and sell the family home of nearly 60 years. Although none of us had lived there for at least 30 years it almost felt as if we were losing our home.

Actually the emptying was in some ways very pleasant, spending time with my brothers, finding things we'd forgotten about, having a laugh. If I'm honest the farmhouse had lost a lot of its immediate appeal because it's the people who make a home special and they were no longer in situ.

And it's very odd what gets to you. My mum and dad had a very nice settee and chairs, dating from the 1970s and just a little old-fashioned. None of the family wanted them nor did any charity because they didn't have the correct fire prevention labels. Regrettably they had to go in a skip.

We looked at the empty skip, we sized the settee up and decided it would have to go in first. We were quite ebullient. It was a fine autumn day in a beautiful setting. We were achieving our objectives slowly but surely.

A skip full of a life

For one last time I sat on the settee for old time's sake. In that split second I was filled with all the Christmases, all the parties, all the TV watching, all the chats, all the being ill, all of life as seen from that settee. I screwed up my face and had a little cry. A sofa made me well up and cry. A time warp of emotions swept up and over me. My brother  brimmed up too. I got up, we lifted it, we got it stuck in the door, we fell about giggling and we popped that lovely, beautiful 1970s settee in the skip and got on with life. I'd said my goodbyes.

Clubbing at my age?

I am entering a new phase in my life. At my advanced age I am entering the world of clubbing. I am becoming a groupie. I am experiencing the ecstasy of clubland vicariously through my two children. I talk not of late teens but of Rainbows and of Cubs and of other little person's activities.

I've never really been a joiner of clubs and perhaps because of this I have encouraged and given the opportunity to my children to partake in lots of  activities in my stead. However this has opened up a whole new level of commitment for my husband and me in both time and money.

I am full of admiration and awe for the people who run these clubs and put in so much effort. They live and breathe their chosen interest and are enthusiastic enough to want to share that with people. In fleeting moments, which I might add quickly pass, I am almost envious of that single-mindedness and passion for their chosen pastimes.

But I have to confess it's taking a little adjusting on my part. There's the weekly commitment that each Wednesday, Thursday and Saturday morning we need to be some where at a specific time. This may be delving too deeply into my psyche but I do rail against this commitment. I was brought up on a farm and I suspect subconsciously I've had enough of having to be some where at a specific time day in, week out i.e. milking time, hay time, silage time.

There's also the budgeting needed to be able to afford these clubs. Last year I asked my little girl if she wanted to join a dance club. She wasn't hugely enthusiastic but said she'd give it a go. I rang up to find out more. The lady was lovely and then emailed me a list of all the shoes and outfits my daughter would need on top of the membership fee. We never did make it to a class.

Then there is the sweet pressure sometimes exerted by the club leaders for parents to play their part. Can parents help here? Can parents join the committee there? This is absolutely reasonable and I have been known to volunteer for this fund raising event and that committee but it doesn't always follow that even though my child may be interested in an activity, I will be too.

Of course my husband and I are really really happy that our children want to go out into the world and enjoy. I'm just a selfish grumpy old mum who thought her clubbing days were long passed.

Going crackers!

We like to have crackers for Christmas dinner. We never had them when I was little so I like to indulge now I'm a big kid (apologies, Mum). Although I do remember having fabulous proper cardboard shiney hats when we used to visit my Auntie Ivy on Boxing day and my Mum too used to buy little presents, wrap them up and pop them on the table which was exciting.

It's fun to pull and snap your cracker. It's fun hoping you get left with the bit that has all the goodies in. It's fun trying on your paper hat and wondering if it's going to be too big or will it split as soon as you pop it on your head. You can tell a good paper crown when you suddenly realise you still have it on your head at bedtime. You can also tell a guest who is up for some fun when they actually pop the hat on their head without a moment's hesitation. I even like the little corny jokes too. And sometimes the mottoes can be very educational.


But if I get another dice or nail clippers or spinning top or bouncy ball or water pistol or giant paper clip in my cracker this Christmas I will go literally 'crackers'. I'm fed up with that tat and want different crap. To this end I have researched my crackers and have purchased some which hide wind-up penguin toys within. I'm hoping for some cracking penguin races with the assembled jolly merry-makers. I was also tempted by the crackers with luxury chocolates enticingly advertised within. I guess I could also buy the self-assembly crackers and set myself the challenge of purchasing my own miniature tat - perhaps next year.

Any way I now have high hopes for a cracking and interestingly tatty Christmas.

To roll? To Brush? That is the question

Do you roll or do you brush? That is the question. I brush. I just can't quite get the hang of rolling. I have been known to roll but I prefer to brush. And oh the criticism I've endured. The looks of disbelief. And all this in my own home.

I talk of course of how you prefer to apply your paint onto your wall. The other week I transformed a wall from dull browny pink plaster into a vibrant shocking pink plaster. It took a few coats and I used a brush. Some builders were still hanging on doing electrics and joinery on the extension and oh the looks of incredulity that I had used a brush. In fact if I had heard another affirmation on the joys of rolling against the horrors of brushing I would have taken great pleasure in brushing (or rolling if they had preferred) a builder a beautiful shade of pink. Sadly they stopped their jibes before I had time to carry out my promise.

Now the builders are gone I am free and plodding on happily painting, painting, painting, brushing, brushing, brushing.

Dublin with 2 children

We all went on an autumn holiday last week. David was working in Dublin and after much thought and angst I decided to travel with children out to see him and the fair city of Dublin.

Well I can tell you now that a city break when there is just the two of you is quite different from a city break with the addition of a 6 and 8 year old.

My 8 year old spent the whole of the flight out asking questions about what we would do when we crashed. Quite matter of fact he was, merely curious as to what the procedure would be. How will we get down from the wings once we've walked out onto them? Why do women have to take their high heels off? Where will the oxygen come from? I eventually told him to shut up.

Then there was the argument about which bed in the hotel they should have and then there was the argument about who should sit next to the window in the Dublin tourist hop on-hop off bus and then there was the sulking about walking 100 yards between the bus and the museum and then there was the tantrum about the arguments.....that was me.

Then there was the need to go to the loo 2 seconds after we'd left the museum with the free and easily accessible toilets. I won't tell you how we solved that little challenge. There was also the curious incident of not eating perfectly great food that we had paid a fortune for and me putting on weight before my very own eyes, eating it up so it wasn't wasted.

But we actually had a good time. We got to see David/Daddy. The weather was sunny. Dublin is beautiful if not that child-friendly and the 6 and 8 year old were beyond excitement at taking off and landing in an aeroplane for the first time ever (although they sulked at all the queuing when really there wasn't that much waiting around). They loved staying in a hotel for the first time ever (the room key cards held endless fascination even if there were fights and yes I mean fisticuffs as to who opened the damn door) and were wide-eyed about riding in a taxi for the first time ever ("so this is a taxi is it?" the 8 year old said in a very sarcastic tone as he got into his first Irish taxi).

Ah well perhaps we'll leave the next city break until they are 28 and 30. We'll go on our own and they can go on their own.

We love Dodos

The Fruitiques had a stall on Sunday at a craft market. It reminded us of the craft fair safari that is the fascinating world of spotting potential buyers and many non-buyers who come to our stall. We are grateful for anyone coming to visit our little world of crafts but we love some more than others! Which safari creature are you?

1) The Enthusiastic Peruser.
She, and she usually is a her, will hoot enthusiastically about a particular product. She swears she has never seen such a lovely well-crafted object in her life. The colour and the concept are brilliant. "What a great price". Ergo this must be a sure sale. But don't be lured into her web of congenial and complimentary quips of enthusiasm. She won't buy. She is a peruser and not a buyer.

2) The Fingerer.
She will examine, touch, rearrange your stall (WITHOUT PUTTING THINGS BACK IN THEIR RIGHTFUL AND CAREFULLY, 'THOUGHT ABOUT FOR 2 HOURS WHERE IT SHOULD GO' POSITION) and then move on without buying.

3)The Arnie
She will be quite encouraging. You'll be on the edge of your seat thinking you've made a sale and then the fateful words spurt out "I'll be back....once I've looked around" but you know deep deep down that she'll never be back. At least old Arnie Schwarzenegger always did come back.

4)The Dionne
Named after the famous Dionne Warwick song, these punters just 'Walk on by'. Actually I quite like these ladies. They have looked at your stall, taken it all in and know the items are not for them and just carry on walking. Some smile and some don't make eye contact. They know what they like and what they want and it ain't your stuff. Trouble is it's often the stuff on the stall next to yours that they do like and purchase!

5) The Teaser
They have picked it up; they have tried it on; they have asked their friend's opinion and they are teetering and then they wobble back from the buying precipice. They come; they tease; they bloody well don't buy.

6) The Blocker
I give you the blocker. They talk, talk, talk about their own crafting expertise but aren't really interested in your little bundles of effort. They are quite rare. Most people who talk about their crafting experiences are lovely and it's great to exchange notes. However, it gets too much when some individuals chat for 10 minutes, blocking access to your stall and preventing you from doing what little sales talk you can muster to encourage other punters to buy.

6) Raphus Cucullatus or The Dodo
It doesn't sound too complimentary of me to call this wonderful person a 'Dodo' but this extinct bird was rather lovely and very distinctive and precious. In our crafting world the Dodos aren't quite extinct but rarer than we would like. For you see these lovely ladies buy our wares. They see, they decide, they follow through and they buy. We love 'em. And we thank 'em all.

Fireworks or Christmas baubles?

My own little sparklers for Bonfire Night....sorry for the tenuous link but you know how I like to self-publicise. Or if you are thinking of Christmas presents......here are some of my own Christmas baubles, made recently.

Orange garland brooch



Blue shiny brooch

Time to sparkle

It's Bonfire Night and we will be out later with fireworks and sparklers. I will be making parkin, a traditional ginger cake, and will probably buy some toffee. Last year I tried making my bonfire toffee and it didn't set. That makes for a difficult and cursing job cleaning the baking tin. Don't know if I can take the risk this year.

We are all at sea a bit with finishing the house off with its extension or else we would have built a bonfire. I love the smell that permeates the air on Bonfire Night - explosives fill the air. There are lots of oohs and ahhs watching the rockets do their stuff. A vintage Bonfire Night is cold and crisp with lots of hot warming food like baked potatoes and mushy peas and hot stew and parkin and toffee apples and soup. Strangely it has to be soup that you can drink from a mug - ease of eating outside I suppose but I always think soup should be spooned not sipped. Someone is in charge of fireworks and there is great anticipation as the touch paper is lit. Sometimes we are pleased and sometimes we are disappointed with the resulting display. But sparklers always satisfy. Write your name in the air and run around (even if it isn't the safe done thing), trailing light.

My friend was telling me how she tried to explain Bonfire Night to some foreign guests last year. "Well you see we light a bonfire and have fireworks to commemorate the saving of the Houses of Parliament from being blown up by a Catholic and oh yes they executed the whole gang too back in the 1600s." She kind of stopped there as it all sounded rather barbaric. It used to be a lot worse - it was much more prevalent in my childhood to actually make an effigy of Guy Fawkes (the guilty Catholic) and throw him on the bonfire but that seems less PC now and not the done thing which is fair enough.

My family like it because it's tradition and gets us out eating, smiling, oohing and ahhing and of course sparkling. Just hope the rain stops!

Rapunzel Diaries 9: Mercian Regimental War Memorial

This is a tower devoted to those fallen in battle. The Sherwood Foresters were originally soldiers recruited from the counties of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire. In 1970 men from the Worcestershire Regiment joined the Foresters. And this merry and proud band of men have a tower as a memorial to their comrades fallen in battle. Sadly there are recent deaths recorded on the memorial wall from Afghanistan. 

What better way to contemplate life, death and why people have to die in wars than when looking at a wonderful, inspiring view from the top of a tower. A fitting memorial to all those who have served.

3D mapping and much more

I have a 25 inch Ordnance Survey plan of the farm where I grew up and all the surrounding land and buildings. It dates from the 60s I think. I have just had it framed. All the land that my Mum and Dad farmed is shaded in pink. I can look at every building, field, lane and even a few houses on that map and visualise instantly what those lines and symbols look like in reality. I look at the plan and see it in 3D, in colour, in textures, even in smells and sounds. If I look hard enough I can even see people.

I can see the old gate posts in the huge field in the valley bottom. I see the flat bed trailer piled high with hay bales making its delicate way up the lane to the farm to be unloaded. I can see Mrs Fleming's house, Harry's cottage and Mr Gaythorpe's farm. I can see a family having their annual party out on the lawn and I can turn through 180 degrees and drink in the view.

There are cows plodding happily up from the hilly field to be milked and the smell of silage (not that bad actually) wafting into the farmyard. There is that line of prolifically fruiting blackberry bushes just over that wall and there is the trace of the footpath, leading up to the papershop. That's the big new red barn and all is green and all is my home.

When I took the plan out of its cardboard tube and handed it over to the picture framers I noticed the name of the farm written in my Dad's handwriting on the tube. The framers cut it out and have put it at the bottom of the framed plan.

My eyes watered to see all this before me.

Inspired by a tomato

Can you spot the tomato camouflaged by our new kitchen floor tiles? Nature is brilliant. The tomato has exactly the same mottled and marbled colouring as the floor. Glad to say it didn't get splattered as we strode across said surface.

Bundle of colour

I mull, you mull, we all should mull

As you can imagine there has been quite a lot of decisions to be made during the house extension. Some were instant choices; some necessitated deep discussion and some just needed to be mulled over.

I rather like 'mulling over' something. It is such a wonderfully nuanced phrase which absolutely encapsulates those often inconsequential decisions over which you need to ruminate; those options which you need to toss about in your head before gently landing upon your answer; those choices that need to be pondered.

So next time you have a decision to make gently mull it over. There is so much less stress involved in 'mulling it over' than 'deciding or 'choosing' there and then. You will also find that more often than not your final decision is the right one if you've mulled over rather than plunged into or plucked your choice out of the air.

So altogether now I mull, you mull, we all mull.

The fizz of elderflower

I love creating things to eat and drink. One of our very favourites is elderflower champagne. Around about my son's birthday in June, the elderflowers are out and it's time to start making the fizz. It's very easy to make - just soak elderflower heads, lemons, sugar and water together, bottle it and 2 weeks later you have the most delicious and fragrant sparkling drink.

It always amazes us that the fizz is generated by the natural yeasts in the flowers. It does get very poppy indeed. You have to bottle it in champagne bottles (good excuse to drink fizzy alcohol the rest of the year in order to generate the empty bottles), pop a cork in and secure with a wire. The first year we made it quite a few bottles exploded due to insecure wiring!

Even this year without a proper a kitchen we still made about 10 bottles. We couldn't resist. Last weekend we tested a bottle and it's a good vintage. Nothing better on an autumnal Sunday lunchtime than to pop open a bottle of elderflower and drink up some early summer fragrance.

Technology cold turkey

I went cold turkey in June. I didn't have a problem....well nothing I couldn't control. I could stop any time yep any time I told myself. Well on June 11th 2013 the whole family went out on a limb and stopped watching the TV. Well to be more precise the TV got lost in the pile of junk that was our sitting room due to the build. Too big to move to another room and besides no other aerial socket, we had to abandon it under a cover and some magazines piled on top. We all went cold turkey.

And to our huge surprise we survived. 18 weeks of not goggling at the box. OK we have watched the odd DVD on the laptop but other than that no TV. There were no sweaty palms or rantings or painful longing. We got on with life. I occasionally got a whiff of information about a programme which I thought would have been quite pleasant to watch but then forgot about it.

We got our room back last week and sat on the sofa (haven't had a sofa either for 18 weeks) and watched TV and it was lovely. It was great to have it back in our lives especially as the dark nights draw in. We have proved we can do without it but that actually we do love it and wouldn't really want to do without it. Besides 'Strictly' is back and my daughter and I lurve it. What we probably should do now is be a tad more discerning in our viewing choices but what the hell I'm having a viewing fest of the great and not so great on TV. But don't worry I can stop any time...yes I don't have a problem....I can stop.

The internet on the other hand is another thing entirely. I haven't posted on the blog for more than a week because our internet link has been down and still is. A friend texted me at the weekend demanding more posts. It's been awful - no access to emails, no access to information, no access to writing the blog. I could not survive now without the internet. I've popped round to a friend's house today and am tapping into her internet vein. There has been ranting. There has been grunting. And it's all been from me. The children seem to be able to take it or leave it but I want it back. I don't want to stop.. any time...period.

I write on books

I write on my books. I scribble notes and musings. Not every book gets 'defaced'. Just one particular kind: my recipe books. I write the date I made the recipe for the first time; who I made it for and any tweaks I made to the list of ingredients and instructions. And of course whether it was worth the effort.

I find it's of interest and use to me when I revisit recipes and I also like to think that if my son or daughter ever want to keep certain of my cookery books, they'll have a little history written there of our eating habits. Plus they'll have some handy tips. Even better if they then write about the recipe and start a running historical commentary.

Yes I write on my books. Whisper, whisper I also have overdue library books!

My tracklements are simmering

The kitchen has been filled with the rather pungent smell of vinegar these last few days. My sister-in-law gave me a lot of green tomatoes and so chutney has been made. For regular readers...yes...I have a functioning kitchen. We are not quite there yet but I have a stove, a sink and storage space. What more could a cook want.

At this time of year I do feel the need to make provisions. Or tracklements! I think that's rather a fab name for chutneys and condiments. "Ooh let me get me tracklements a-simmering." My manufacture of jams and chutneys is the equivalent of my husband's need to get the wood cut and the logs stored before the winter sets in. The leaves are falling so it's time to boil sugar and fruit and let the jammy alchemy begin.

I don't bother making a Christmas pudding and popping that into fermenting storage but I do need to make some blackberry gin and some pickled onions and piccalilli. As a child my mum's best friend's mother used to make superb pickled onions and the most fabulous piccalilli. I can taste them now - oh the joy. We always used to wait with bated breath to see whether Auntie Margaret had wrapped us up a jar of both for Christmas Day. I think it depended on whether her mum had any jars left over once immediate family had been served. Then Boxing Day consisted of eating the onions and the  yellowy mustard chutney with a little bit of turkey on the side. That is December 26th for me. It is my life's work to try to emulate the wondrosity of those tracklements and I haven't achieved it yet.

As for the blackberry gin, well I couldn't possibly be expected to cook Christmas dinner without a tipple on the side. A little bit of blackberry liqueur in the bottom of a champagne flute, topped with sparkling wine and it doesn't then matter if the Brussels sprouts are soggy and the turkey crisp. I'm merry.

Supermarket Dance Moves

My brother got married on Saturday and we had a splendid day, culminating in a disco. It's ages since I had a good dance and my nieces (all in their twenties) were able to update me on a few dance moves. Believe me I needed them to take me in hand. Claire especially tipped me off about her 'in the supermarket' technique. Granted it's hard to explain and appreciate the full genius of this advice without showing you a video but darn it we forgot to record it for the nation.

Basically move your body and feet to the beat while pretending to pick items off notional supermarket shelves high, medium and low and then every now and again push your imaginary trolley to the music. If it's a particularly quick tempo then just empty the phantom items out of that old trolley in a maniacal fashion. NB If you are dancing and actually see or hallucinate supermarket shelves you have imbibed too much.

Apparently on 'You Tube' there are some Supermarket Cart Dances but I'd like to think my niece and her friend invented it. Anyway apply the moves to most music and you'll look impressive and more importantly it will bring a smile to your face. Try it next time you hit the dance floor or just in your kitchen but perhaps not in your local supermarket. It tickled me pink.

The Build: Week 15

Hooray a veritable collection of builders/tradespeople arrived on Monday morning after our week of inactivity. What do you call a collection of house builders? A sweep of builders? Ours do do quite a bit of sweeping surprisingly enough if not quite as much as they did at the start of the build! A dustball of builders? There's plenty of that settled about the house. A flurry of tradespeople? They blow in, they blow out very quickly sometimes with jobs left half finished until their next visit. A banter of tradespeople? Believe me I've had to keep on top of my repartee techniques and keep my sense of humour cogs well oiled.

This week I've learnt that skirting board isn't just any old architrave and that you can have taurus and ogee on the same board. Oh yes and it's unfortunate when you get your bulls mixed up with your ogees and have to start again.  I've learnt what is expected of decorators - you have to patch up as well as paint which I'm not pleased about seeing I'm the decorator. I find also that I now know automatically if any one builder prefers tea or coffee and how many sugars he has (sadly no lady builders have appeared) - perhaps they have all been here just a bit too long.

And I've also realised that although our 'banter of builders' have been frustrating at times by not turning up when they said they would and not doing exactly what they said they would do when they said they would do it, they have nevertheless done a good job and been generally lovely over the last fifteen weeks. Our architect also has been just fabulous; a great design realised and a reassuring presence throughout the planning, build and I am sure the inevitable snagging to come. We are not there yet but very close.

Rapunzel Diaries 8: Rossall Point ObservationTower

The best towers are the ones you come across unexpectedly. For example, you are visiting your auntie on the coast with towers the last thing on your mind. There's Blackpool Tower down the road for sure but there aren't any more in the area and yet you spot a leaflet out of the corner of your eye at a country park visitor centre. Could it be, are you mistaken, no it really is a new tower to visit.

Rossall Point Observation Tower is a very sweet tower that leans - Fleetwood's very own 'Leaning Tower' except this has been built to tip into the coastal breeze. And we found this purposeful tower on a visit to my aunties at Cleveleys during the summer. It has a ground floor with interesting information about the coast and its wildlife; the next floor hosts a covered deck for observing; the next storey is operated by Coastwatch and the top floor is for leaning on the wall and gazing out over Morecambe Bay and the sea and the sky. A happy find.

A serendipitous find

 

 



Rapunzel Diaries 7: Hadlow Tower

I'm going to give you a new emotion: tower envy. I'm going to convert you to the thrills of tower climbing. I'm going to hone your tower seeking senses so that when you discover one you will want to climb it. I give you Hadlow Tower. This was our rather wonderful reason for visiting Kent.

Hadlow Tower



If I was Rapunzel (and I can't be coz I have very very short hair) I would want to be kept in a tower like this one. Three spiral staircases, a museum, a lift, a parapet from which to gaze down upon and around the world and bedrooms. Yes we slept in this tower. We had our very own grown-up sized Wendy tower to play in for the weekend.

It was my friend's 60th birthday and what a way to celebrate. We spent a whole morning exploring the spiral staircases and racing each other between the four floors. Then there was the main modern spiral staircase that took you up to our eyrie. Then of course we had to have photos taken from every vantage point and every combination of people in every vantage point.


It's in my top ten of best towers because it has steps to draw you up and build the anticipation; it's a truly beautiful spectacle and you get a lovely vista of Kent from the top...oh yes and did I mention you can sleep in it? Plus you get to climb to the top of your tower at night and view the stars above and the lights of the town and countryside below. Plus plus you get to turn all the lights on in the tower and run outside to see how magical a tower looks at night with all its lights on!

Over 4 million pounds has been spent on renovating this marvel. It was built in 1838, probably as a way to show off by its owner, and gradually fell into decay in the 20th century. Some very dedicated people campaigned to renovate it and over the last few years it's happened. You can stay in it and you can visit it on certain days during the summer. There is a little museum about its history, its renovation and other folly towers. Never had a museum for our private use before that's for sure. You should go.

Jam paradise

Our weekend in Kent has certainly left an impression. I have county envy. Well county envy during this period of mellow fruitfulness when every tree and bush we looked at seemed to be ladened down with fruit. Kent is a jam and chutney makers paradise. We went on a walk and saw blackberries, sloes, damsons, apples, greengages, Victoria plums, crabapples - all for the taking growing by the side of the path. If I lived there I could go out every day and come back with a pot of jam for the making.

It's not only fruit. We walked through fields of lettuce. Of course I know these aren't free but it's something we would never see up here in the north. And of course we saw hops growing up strings. It took us a while to click that one. It was an unfamiliar and exciting landscape to us.

All this plus our main reason for being in Kent made for a wonderful weekend...............

Rapunzel Diaries 6: The Shard

I have had a lovely summer of towers. A tower fest to be sure. And the Shard was the tallest, not the most impressive but pretty near. It's obvious to say it but it does indeed look like a shard of glass piercing the London skyline. It's a bit of a wonky shard if you look directly up from the bottom - probably an illusion as it's so high. It's the tallest building in Western Europe but interestingly the second tallest structure in the UK after Emley Moor transmitting station. It was designed by Renzo Piano, a rather cool name to have and a rather cool place to say is your vision.

We caught the lift to level 68 for our first glimpse of London below us. It is breath taking. You can then climb the stairs up to Level 72. There are observation scopes around one of the levels so you can zoom in on places to find out what they are. It is fascinating to identify all these myriad famous places before you.

Our friends, S and R, got married very quietly last Saturday and went up the Shard as apart of their celebration. Congratulations. May your lives be full of interesting towers!

The Build: Week 14

So near, yet so far. We are so close to finishing this build. The architect thinks about another week but there appears to be so much yet to do. Finish the kitchen, lay three floors, complete the electrics, fit a Juliette balcony and so on. Lots of things and people that need to come together to finish a job.

We are fed up. We are fed up of living in a dusty mess where we can't find anything. We want to cook a meal, sit down at a table to eat it and then plunge onto a sofa and watch TV like we used to 14 weeks ago. People are lovely though and tell us it will all be worth it in the end. And it will.

The builder has had another job on this week and we feel left in limbo with fingers and toes crossed he will give us his undivided attention next week. He hasn't let us down thus far but I have learnt quite slowly over this project that successful builders appear to be successful builders because they can spin a tale. I call it BSing.....being 'blooming silly' but perhaps you can think of another term that fits.

We do now have an oven that works. But even the promise of buns hasn't lured the builder back. There is always painting to do as we have elected to do the decorating. I have become an expert on the mist coat: the layer of paint that goes on new plaster to seal it. I fear I will be dreaming soon about brushes and paint and misquotes and amorphous overcoats.  Alas and woe is us but what we can do is have a hot luxurious bath and a refreshing power shower. Yes the bathroom is finished....hooray....oh apart from the fact it hasn't got a door nor skirting boards nor a radiator that works.

M25 smugness

I listen to Radio 2 now and then. Ergo I listen to endless national traffic reports. Ergo I hear a lot about the M25 and the stationary traffic thereon. Inevitably there is always a report about this motorway winding around London. Traffic isn't moving anti-clockwise, cars are at a standstill, there is very heavy congestion moving at a snail's pace clockwise. It's attained a kind of mythical status in my mind of a ribbon of cars encircling London that just don't move. You drive on to it at your peril as you'll be stuck there forever circling round and round such is its image in my mind.

This last weekend David and I travelled 520 miles to Kent and back. We had to travel on the M25. I don't mind confessing as we approached this legendary road, I was slightly nervous to be meeting it. Why would anyone join the M25 just to be stuck in a queue? Would we indeed have to sit on it as I anticipated? Would we be part of the slow moving snail travelling anti-clockwise?

Of course we had Radio 2 on in the car to keep us abreast of the current M25 situation as we approached this circular highway at 5.30pm on a Friday evening. Surely as M25 virgins we would meet heavy congestion during this last rush hour before the weekend. I drove on to it from the east, going in an anti-clockwise direction at about 6pm and we held our metaphorical breadths. About an hour and a half later - hallelujah - we had endured no tailbacks, no jams and were off it. We felt relieved, spilling over into smugness as we cheered when Junction 5 appeared with no queues having been endured.

We were very lucky. Our friends who tried to join the M25 to the north of London at the same time as us were not so happy. They ended up in a three hour standing queue. They could have set up camp at the side of the motorway and phoned for a take away (delivered perhaps by scooter driving madly down the hard shoulder). The motorway was closed with them on it due to a suspicious man and package. Oh dear such was their frustration and despondency that when they did get going again they just turned their backs on the M25 and went back home and did not rendezvous with us at our final destination.

We took on the legendary M25 and we won.....some of us anyway.

PS More about our final destination in Kent in a later post - suffice it to say it was a towering experience (a clue there).

Blackberry picking

I love picking blackberries. Get my dish and off I go to find a blackberry bush. This year they are the juiciest for a good few years. It's so satisfying picking free fruit and then making them into crumbles, pies and jam. This year I'm having to freeze before use as we still have no kitchen.

I must admit it's also quite a sad time this year. I have always blackberried 'at home' on the farm. I knew where all the best blackberry bushes were but this year there is no 'home'. My mum's house was sold in February and I guess this annual blackberry hunt has had to change location. As a child I always knew when the blackberries were ripe as my Auntie Mary and family would turn up from Sheffield to pick them. One year she fell into a blackberry bush - I could show you which one. Even my Dad would sometimes grab a little pan after working on the farm and fill it to the brim with succulent berries. These were usually made into a pie or stewed with the late addition of golden syrup by my mum.

My mission is to go out every day and fill a container until they end. Of course I must stop on Oct 1st for by then the devil will have got the little black berries. Rural folklore or is it just plain sensible not to pick berries passed their best?

Hula hooping away

Can you hula hoop? I used to be able to do it. But alas now I cannot. My daughter is a genius at it. She can hula hoop for hours and amuse us walking around doing her hula hoop chicken walk.

My husband has tried and he can't. We've had all sorts of theories to justify why we can't do it. Our centre of gravity is different? The hula hoop isn't big enough? There's too much in the way when you are a grown woman (my excuse of course)! And when it's all too much we have sulkily taken our hula hoop home with us and been heard to mutter why would we want to hula hoop anyway? I fear we just can't hula hoop it.

We once saw an act which consisted of a woman just hula hooping. It was mesmerizing. She could hula hoop round every part of her body and with multi hula hoops. She definitely had skills.

Off to practice now.

Rapunzel Diaries 5: Hereford Cathedral Tower

What do most churches have? Answer: towers. They are a very good source for tower climbing especially in September when quite a few churches open up their towers for the Heritage Open Weekend. Cathedrals often have tours of their magnificent perpendicular lofty regions throughout the year. We've just been on holiday to Herefordshire and am happy to report that Hereford Cathedral had a tower tour on that I and my children couldn't resist. The other five members of our party did decline to climb up though - funny folks!

Hereford Cathedral used to have two towers but the western one collapsed in the 18th century but we were willing to risk a climb of the 218 steps up the existing one. With cathedral climbs you get to see the building from the inside and from different perspectives. We got to walk across the ceiling and see it from the inside and view the cathedral down from the Lantern gallery appreciating the mosaic floors and the scale of the church. It is truly amazing when you contemplate that this building dates from the 11th century. How did they do it?

The reward is superb views of the Brecon Beacons, Malvern Hills and Herefordshire but the fascinating aspect is looking down on Hereford itself and seeing the gardens and nooks and crannies you just don't know or imagine exist.

Anyway we knew we had to descend again when we shouted down to David and our friends (sorry we broke the cloistered silence with 'Oi we're up here, you lot') and were greeted with fingers pointing at watches and then mouths. How could they favour lunch over a tower adventure...those perpendicularly challenged heathens.

The Build:Week 12

We came back from holiday at the weekend to no kitchen and no bathroom. I kinda nearly cried but instead decided to laugh. It was just one of those things. Lots of work had been going on but we had no sinks, no hot water. After having two showers a day on holiday - well you've got to make hay while the sun shines and makes you sweaty and smelly  - it's been a bit of a comedown.

No fear the next day we had hot water, no sink downstairs and a sink with hot water upstairs. We even had the family party care of my brother and partner who catered magnificently sans kitchen.

The next day I set about painting the bathroom in readiness for... well.. a bathroom.  We are not people who spend days fretting over colour charts and deciding on hues and shades so I went to the paint shop and grabbed a tin of paint in soft steel which I thought would look good with the anthracite sink unit we have chosen. It does look great on the walls without anything in the room but whether it goes with the units we have no idea.


A bathroom with joy of joys a shower, wonders of wonders a bath, a rather useful sink and a clean and dust free toilet is materialising before our eyes as I write. We can't wait.

About a photo with no photo

My brother bought me an Olympus Trip camera for my 18th birthday back in the year dot. Ever since photos have been hugely important to me as a means of recording my life.

An essential element of that photographic diary is the annual family photo. I have a record of what our family has looked like for the last 30 years. The original has my parents, my brothers and me - just the five of us. At full strength now we can be fifteen plus. Of course we have a party at the same time. We eat, we drink, we catch up, we play games, we have a photo taken.

The latest snapshot taken yesterday has my siblings, nieces, nephew, my children, partners. We gather in a group and the self timer is pressed on the camera and I run into position. Been doing that at the annual family party now for nearly three decades. It's rather wonderful and poignant to look back on the early photos and see what we all looked like (was I really that thin) as well as taking a long reflective sigh on seeing the loved ones no longer here. I think my Dad loved being at the centre of the photo, head of the clan. My Mum is still on it in spirit. She won't leave the old people's home because of bad knees and we can't quite organise ourselves to gather altogether at the home for the photo. Don't worry she has a steady stream of relatives from morning to evening on the day of the family photo.

One year we tried to be a little different and take a panoramic shot of the family all lined up youngest (left) to oldest (right). I don't think the family members on the right liked being ...well...on the right so we now just gather into a group, all mixed up.

I am now quite obsessed with group photos. At a party, at Sunday lunch, at a play over, on a camping trip I gather everyone together for my photo record. It's tradition.

I could publish the family photo here but we are quite shy so you'll have to settle for a blog post about a photo without a photo.

Yes I do, no I don't, yes I do

I do like camping. I do. I don't particularly like packing all the equipment together and squeezing it into the car but I do like camping. I don't particularly sleep very well when camping especially when someone plays music late into the night but I do like camping. It annoys me when everything gets untidy in the tent but I do like camping. I don't like it when it rains but I do like camping. I don't relish taking the tent down and squeezing everything back into the car and then drying everything out when I get home but I do like camping.



Camping near Austwick, Yorkshire Dales

There are so many things that I don't really like about camping that I never should go at all. But last weekend we went camping and it reminded me why it is worth the effort. We got to stay for two nights in the beautiful Yorkshire Dales quite cheaply; my children spent all their time playing in the stream in front of our encampment; I had a lovely giggle with my children, my brother, my niece, my cousin, my second cousin (is that what the daughter of my cousin is called?) and all their lovely partners. Even my husband who does not like camping at all had a little giggle and came for one night. I love to sit down in front of the tent, soaking in the view (not the rain this trip) and enjoying the adventure.

Evening vista
 

Yes I do like camping.....as long as it is for no longer than two nights and there is a shower block and it's a very very quiet campsite.....oh and the sun shines. I do I do I do......don't I!?

Escaltorgate

My eight year old got his shoe laces stuck at the bottom of the escalator (moving pavement not stairs) in our local supermarket last week. I should add before I go on that at no point was he in danger. I duly pressed the emergency stop. A very kind lady then went back into the supermarket to get help.

Two supermarket ladies came running at full speed. I think they must have heard 'child', 'escalator', 'stuck' and let their imaginations run wild as they did come running very quickly indeed. They were just lovely. After my son extracted his foot from the shoe, the escalator was reversed and the laces released. My son was quite shaken I think although he didn't let on. My son was a little embarrassed too although he didn't let on. Anyway he has spent the time since dining out on his escalator experience, bigging it all up for his audiences.

Lessons learnt
Lesson 1: the ladies at the supermarket are lovely and are very good at dealing with laces in escalator situations - I think I will write a letter to thank them.
Lesson 2: I used to spend quite a lot of time telling my son to retie his shoe laces before escaltorgate but strangely since then I have not had to.
Lesson 3: My son informs me that we cannot go back to the supermarket ever again unless we are in disguise.

A salad from the seventies

Why is it that the majority of cafes in this country cannot do salad? We went to a café on Friday. Lovely place, sat outside, great staff. I ordered a burger which was lovely - their own lamb and mint. It had a salad on the side: sliced iceberg lettuce, sliced tomato, sliced cucumber, sliced red pepper, not sliced but grated carrot. God I hate salads like that. Plonked on the plate as a gesture, as an afterthought. "We'll give you  a salad but quite frankly we can't be bothered to think out of the box and this just helps to fill your plate."  To my dismay this particular café had also popped some ready salted crisps on the side too. That annoys the hell out of me. So much has changed for the good with British food over the last thirty years but salads for many establishments are stuck in the 1970s. I was born in 1965 and in this one instance I have no desire to go back to 'my salad days'.....I might if it meant slimmer thighs and no grey hair but not for the food.

Salad inspiration or expiration?

Why can't British cafes do an imaginative salad? Pubs are guilty too. It used to be that I judged a café by the quality of coffee they served. Nowadays most have eschewed instant coffee thank goodness for the joys of real coffee beans so why not throw out the drab iceberg too, shaved on the side.  You could still get away with tomatoes, lettuce, cucumber, pepper and carrot but present them more imaginatively and add a salad dressing. What I'd really like to see is a selection of ingredients from a wider palette, placed together tastily and tantalisingly. There's a whole range of green stuff out there. What about a beetroot (actually red stuff) ensemble (and I don't mean beetroot in vinegar); what about a gathering of different tomatoes; even a lovely homemade coleslaw; some fruit in the salad; add a few shavings of Parmesan or some British goats cheese?  What about just thinking about producing a lovely and complementary side salad.

I know there are cafes which do produce wonderful tasty salads and not necessarily for heftier prices. But to the rest : Come on cafes (and pubs too) salad up.

PS Went to another café today - I know we lead the high life. Actually we (my husband and I) went for a re-energising sandwich and cup of tea three quarters of the way through a 12 mile walk and I can tell you now the salad garnish or salad afterthought did not revive me physically or spiritually (see photo).

Crying at Brass

Am I the only one but does listening to a brass band bring a tear to your eye? At Christmas I find it particularly hazardous on the mascara. I am doing my shopping, minding my own business when a brass band starts playing 'Away in a Manger' and indeed I am Away with the Tears. Throw in a choir of children from a local primary school and I am completely awash.

I don't know what it is. Perhaps it's the local tradition of brass bands which I find so appealing. They have often grown up around a colliery or a mill or a village. There is a shared connection. I love the fact that there is a mixture of people in the brass band from trendy teenager to old bloke. I appreciate the fact that these people come together to make music and enjoy themselves.

Perhaps it's purely down to the lovely mellow tones that trigger my tear ducts. I'm no music expert but a solitary tune from a brass instrument is very moving. Mind you I cry at the rousing anthems too. There is also a pride that wells up in me. Don't know whether that's a reflection of a tradition and skill done well but I love it.

I also rather like the fact that brass bands are so versatile and pop up anywhere. They can play outdoors in a park band stand or at your school fete, they can play on the hoof, marching and playing beautifully all at the same time, and they can give proper, professional concerts sat down. Now when was the last time you saw a full orchestra do all that.

There is an annual brass band competition near to where we live in Saddleworth and Tameside that celebrates brassy brass bands. It's held on Whit Friday in June. Bands come from all over the country, hop on a coach and visit any number of venues (must be twenty plus). They play a march, marching and perform their show-off-tune all al fresco, hop back on the bus and visit the next location 10 minutes up the road. They are judged at each venue. People come to listen, watch, have a pint, socialise, enjoy. It's a wonderful tradition dating back more than 100 years. What's especially refreshing is that it's open to everyone so the local school can compete against the best bands in the country.

I haven't been to the competition for years. Note to self - take a deck chair one Friday evening next June to a village in Saddleworth, buy a pint, sit back, watch and listen.