Christmas Cake

I made my Christmas Cake the other day, following my Mum's recipe. It's full of fruit and cherries. I have tried it in previous years to absolute disastrous results as I think my thermostat had really broken on my old oven so any cake that had to stay in over 30 mins came out black. But now I have a new oven.

I lined the cake tin, I mixed the cake ingredients and in it went for 3 hours at a very low heat and came out with not one burnt mark. My Mum's tip to cover the top with milk before it goes in the oven  to prevent scorching worked a treat.

I am feeding it now with alcohol and resisting the temptation to cut into it to see if it's as deliciously moist and flavoursome as my Mums used to be...only 5 or 6 weeks to go. I will then inexpertly plonk some marzipan on top, sprinkle with glitter and other small cakey decorations that I can purchase in a tube at the supermarket and then stand my little models of a stag and fawn on top. You can tell I don't go in for brilliant decoration - more rustic is my approach.

Don't know whether to cut into it in the immediate build-up to Christmas and have with mince pies on offer for guests and risk it disappearing before Christmas Day or wait until the big day itself.

Think I'll have to make two.

Castle of Park

Castle of Park including two ghosts

I have been lazy and not posted for some time. It could in part be due to the fact I started a new job in September so all my energies have been going into that. But I'm back and I have a new tower. Not quite a perfect tower as we couldn't get out on to the roof but 2 spiral staircases and 4 floors and we had it all to ourselves. We were in heaven.

 

Castle of Park is a fortified tower house set in Dumfries and Galloway which we slept in for four nights. Lots of hide 'n' seek and chase and a monopoly game that went on and on which meant there wasn't quite enough time left to complete the intricate jigsaw that David started just too late. There was also the 'let's turn all the lights off on the stairs and then challenge each other to go up one set and down the other with just a torch while Mum makes spooky noises' game. I was too scared to even contemplate doing the challenge (I had to wake David up to go to the loo with me in the middle of the night) but the children loved it.

Egglestone Show

I never thought I'd say this but last weekend I felt a bit like a city girl. Me! A farmer's daughter. True enough I abandoned all thought of farming forty odd years ago. In fact I never abandoned the thought, it just never occurred to me that I would ever want to spend my adult life farming. And last weekend I guess I realised how removed I was from agricultural pursuits.

We went to visit family in Teesdale - a beautiful part of north England and we went to Egglestone Show. It was a lovely show. There was horseriding including tiny tiny tots riding ponies; a falconry display; carriage driving; glorious local food; sheep, cattle, even lamas and a tent full of homegrown veg to make David and I weep to look at the paltry size of own home grown efforts. The carrots, parsnips, leeks were ginormous.

It was a beautiful day and I had on my sandals which immediately outed me to be the city girl I have become. This was a September show with a slight chill in the wind even though the sun was shining. I needed knee high, leather boots. The type that are a cross between riding boots and wellies and are made from tip top brown leather. Every lady there from a three year old to a dowager duchess had on such boots. I had a bright green walking cagoule on too. Oh no...tweed or quilted jackets were de rigueur.

 

I quite liked the look and was quite tempted. But soon realised that to walk the children to school in suburban Manchester in such garb would look a tad out-of-place. It might do though for a walk over the local fields and hills so am very tempted by some boots.

Anyway  a good time was had by all. The veg were beyond my imagination but I reckon that my lemon drizzle cake would have stood a good chance of coming first in the lemon drizzle cake competition. I'm tempted to enter next year and deliver my cakes in sandals and cagoule.

Make your mind up.

You know what really irritates me: actors who wear spectacles as a part of their character and yet clearly are very very confused as to why they are wearing glasses.  The actor just twiddles and fiddles with the glasses. They put them on their nose; they take them off as they discuss state secrets; they put them on top of their head; they balance them out of the corner of their mouth. But one thing is absolutely clear in 20:20 vision they are not using them to improve their eyesight.

I watched a drama last night. The actress started well. She was taking notes and popped glasses on when writing and off when looking at her interviewee. She clearly needed the specs for reading or so I thought. Then she was seen walking in the park with the same glasses on (big designer ones at that) and went into a café and popped them on top of her head when she started talking with someone. It didn't add up. Apart from anything if the actress knew how much her character had paid for those designer spectacles she wouldn't treat them so cavalierly pushing them casually onto her crown from whence they could crash to the floor breaking and costing lots of money to replace.

I watched a film on Friday and the main character wore glasses all the way through. Fine. He played a bit of an uptight, nerdy character but if he needed glasses to see then glasses he needed. Then at the end when he had transformed himself overnight and I mean literally overnight into a confident, trendy bloke he was sans specs. Now there is another blog post there as to why confident, handsome characters need to shift the glasses and nerdy ones need to keep them but it was a miracle: he could see. He went to bed one night, placing his glasses on the bedside table and the next morning he had perfect vision. A walking optical sensation. There was a complete film just in that and probably more interesting than the one I'd just watched.

Wood 4

We haven't been to Robin's Wood for ages and ages. But we returned in style last week for some wild camping and it was glorious. Even with all 4 of us squashed into a very small 4 person tent we still enjoyed it. As you can see below a lot of hard work was endured.

Potters

There is a time warp in Buxton, Derbyshire. There is a small space up a street in that town where everything is happy and good and all right with the world. The place is called Potters and it's one of those old fashioned miniature department stores from the 1950s. It sells women's clothes, men's clothes, makes curtains and cushions for you and sells bedding and a whole lot more which I haven't discovered yet down one of its corridors.

On the face of it it looks very old fashioned. But if you linger and peer in at its floor to ceiling windows displays, they do have some lovely, modern gems as well as more olde worlde fashioned items. It's a treasure trove of wonders.

I can't resist entering to be greeted by 10 million shop assistants because that's another wonderful thing about Potters: it is full of knowledgeable ladies waiting to help. And when you pay for your item you get a hand-written receipt and the money is secreted away in an old fashioned wooden till drawer. And apparently they have been serving the good people of Buxton since the middle of the 19th century.

There used to be a similar shop called Addy's in my local village when I was a girl. It had glass counters with drawers visible beneath full of gloves, handkerchiefs and other miscellaneous items. There was a lady called Betty in the ladies section whom my mum knew and I remember one Christmas my Mum gave her some money and Betty guided me through the wonders of the shop giving me ideas of what to buy my mum, dad and brothers for Christmas.

Potters is like that so next time you are in Buxton, don't be put off by the slightly archaic appearance of the shop windows but venture in, you'll find something to your liking.

Beetrootgate

Oh dear I had a nightmare last night. I dreamt that I spilled beetroot on my auntie's brilliant white table cloth and then just sat and watched the deep purple juice stain away.

Oh dear I had a nightmare experience last night. I actually did spill beetroot onto my auntie's nice clean tablecloth. I had been so strict with my children, serving them the beetroot and instilling in them the need to be careful that a slice did not slip slowly off their plate onto the tablecloth. And what did I do.......forked too many beetroot slices at one time and they splurged quickly and deliberately onto the white cloth.

A gosh, an uncontrollable giggle, a swear word and we all stared at the purple splodge on the cloth. Up we all got spontaneously and took all the plates, cutlery and etceteras off the table while my auntie whipped the cloth off and into soak.

Then we reset the table, sat down and laughed a lot about the beetroot incident.

Food hatch

Let us talk hatches.....food hatches to be precise. Now that's a bit of a blast from the past. The children and I have just been to visit my auntie. She has a food hatch between her kitchen and dining room and the children love it. It's about 45cm wide by 30cm high with a narrow ledge and two little doors. It is for handing food through to the table from the kitchen instead of taking it round on foot and for popping the empties back through but it is really so much more.

You can play peep-po; you can play shops; you can play restaurants; you can play knocking and then running; you can simply open and shut it; you can chat; you can even try to get your entire nine year old body through from one side to the next.

Believe me we had to stay for an extra few hours to get another lunch in so it was fair that both children had had the equal number of opportunities to sit by the hatch.

My brother used to have a hatch in his old house but it was very big and had no doors and thus lost it's appeal somehow. You need it smallish and it has to have miniature doors with little knobs on so that again the nine year old can pull them to and fling them open.

Now I was thinking that I had missed the opportunity to construct a walk-in wardrobe as part of our extension last year but my children probably think otherwise.

Ice cream boat

Had a long weekend in Poole visiting my niece. They have ice cream boats down there, you know, which play a tune to announce their approach. Mega expensive ice creams but I needed no persuasion to paddle out and partake.

Ice creams just leaving

2014 vintage update

I know you have been worried, my few faithful readers! I know you've been on tenterhooks about it. I know you were concerned for my fermenting sanity. But I can report that the 2014 elderflower fizz is a huge success.

A new and slightly different recipe but the fizz is effervescent and the taste superb. If I could I'd invite you all round (believe me you would all fit in) for a slurp and a toast.

Now where did I put that recipe..........

Gifts for the teacher

Last day of school today. The number of parents who were weighed down with their gifts for their child's teacher was quite noticeable and believe me some of those gift bags looked rather big.

My children took a bunch of sweet peas from the garden in last week in a jam jar that said 'Thank you' on. It's green, cheap (I'll admit but lovingly nurtured - see there the teaching parallel!) and even if the teacher doesn't like beautiful, perfumed, delicate flowers they can always compost them. We sent it with sincere and happy thanks for another productive and incident-free academic year.

A whole industry has grown up around the last day of school with gifts and cards to buy for your child's teacher. It seems we are absolute suckers for it. There is the prom event nowadays and also apparently the nursery graduation ceremony, complete with miniature caps and gowns to buy for our little darlings. And parents fall for it. Any possible excuse and the shops will make it and we will purchase it.

I know that we trust teachers with our children and they play a huge role in their and our lives but I think that we now go over the top with the present for the teacher. Although many may be given with sincerity, I suspect some are modern cases of 'keeping up with the Jones'. And to give credit to the teachers I am sure they would be more than touched and contented with a card, holding heart-felt and genuine messages of thanks within.

I'd also like to mention all those backroom staff that play crucial roles too in the lives of our children: all the admin staff, the dinner time staff, the caretakers, the people who delivery extra-curricula activities. They are crucial in allowing the school to run as smoothly as possible. Shouldn't we buy for them too? Don't they feel they've missed out?

I thought my friend solved the dilemma of whether to buy or not to buy very well last year. She has three children. She is grateful that they are happy and learning well in school. She bought a shiny red apple for the each of her child's teachers and gave it with humour and much gratitude.

Crafting no more

I did my final craft fair last week. My two fellow crafters and I embarked on a great craft adventure about two years ago. Sonya sewing, Joy knitting and crocheting and myself jewellery making. If we didn't exactly building a crafting empire, we certainly have built sound and wonderful friendships between us. It was always a hobby for us if we are honest.

We've sold some stuff so it's quite comforting to think that our products are out there being worn and displayed and who knows perhaps a 'Virginia Blakeley' will be a much sought after item in a thousand years but I think not.

The craft fair market is saturated now. Lots of people have jumped on the bandwagon, got their glue out and made some dubious 'crafts'. It seems to have come full circle. Whereas 20 years ago I wouldn't go to a local craft fair for fear of running into a crocheted toilet roll cover, I am less willing to go now for fear of bumping into run-of-the-mill tat. There is fabulous workmanship out there but you have to go to the big craft shows to find craftsmanship par excellence. There are some gems in the smaller craft markets but it's harder and harder to find something of quality and something  unique.

So I have opened my box of necklaces and am wearing them all now. I'll dabble now and then. I will leave the craft fairs to the professionals.

Tour de Yorkshire regrets

Wracked with regret that I didn't make more of an effort to see the Tour de France/Yorkshire. Instead I was stuck at a craft fair in Manchester and sold precisely zero! Of course potential customers were either watching cycling, tennis or fast cars or enjoying the sunshine and so didn't come out. Rather sensible of them really.

The Tour came within ten miles of our house and I did debate whether to brave the crowds and view the pelaton speeding passed but ...oh yes there was the little fact I had that craft fair.

My brother had a ringside seat at the top of the Woodhead and could smell the sweat as the cyclists breezed past......for exactly 48 seconds. Whoosh and gone but he'd been there and done it.

My husband did watch it on telly and was waiting with baited breath for the point when the cyclists rush down from Holme Moss onto the Woodhead Road. It's some where we know quite well and we knew the cyclists would have a sharp left hand corner to negotiate. He was looking forward to witnessing it even if it was one step removed on TV. Oh the anticipation. ITV clearly wasn't anticipating it quite as much and cut to adverts just at the crucial moment. When the channel returned to the action the peloton was way up the Woodhead, that sharp so interesting corner long gone.

Still I did get a little Tour de Yorkshire frisson later. Ok it was 3 hours later but I felt a little involved in the day's excitement: we went up to Glossop to see the in-laws and saw cyclist upon amateur cyclist returning from their days' spectating. I wonder if they witnessed the professionals take on that left hand bend at the bottom of Holme Moss?

Why is it?

We have had some lovely sunny and hot weather over the last few weeks. Great! Then why is it that as I picked the children up from school on Friday afternoon and we got into the car to go camping it started to rain? Why is it that after we put the tent up in a field in Derbyshire (at least it didn't rain putting the tent up), a cool breeze got up and every one of us had 6 layers on and in one case a woolly hat and gloves? Why is it that the sun never came out all weekend? Why is it that as we took the tent down it started to rain and why is it that as we got up this morning for the start of the working and school week the sun and blue skies dared to appear. And why is it that I have agreed to go camping again for two nights in August?

Blast and double blast

Bugger, bugger, bugger. My brother comes for tea every Tuesday after he has visited my mum in the home. It's his birthday on Friday and we got his present three weeks ago. My husband put it in the study. We are very pleased with the presents and think my brother will be pleased and amused.  Every time I have seen them over the last two weeks I have thought how I must hide those presents; how I must wrap them up, how they seem a little too much on open display.

Bugger, bugger, bugger....my brother went into the study tonight to look something up on the internet with me and what did he darn well see.......'Oh this book looks interesting and is this a solar shower kit?'

If you think it's a good idea to do something, it probably is.

2014 vintage

Just set down this year's elderflower fizz. David and I had the production line going. I scalded the bottles, strained the soaked elderflower stew and he funnelled the soon-to-be-fizz into the bottles, pushed a cork in and then screwed on a wire. This year I have treated David to a £4.50 wire tool which twists the wire round without the use of sore fingers and secures that cork down, resisting the build-up of elderflower pressure.

I am a bit worried this year though. We made last year's vintage amidst the chaos and dust of the extension build and I have misplaced my recipe which has served me well for 4 years. Can't find it any where. Looking on the internet there are 100s of recipes, all slightly different but none that strike a chord. I tried one recipe last week and it started to go mouldy before we had chance to bottle! And some recipes, shame on them, suggest adding a little dried yeast when the whole miracle and wonder of drinking the elderflower bubbles is that the fizz is there naturally from the yeasts in the flowers. Anyway I plumped for another recipe and hope it serves well. I'll know and you'll know in about 2 weeks.

Rapunzel Diaries 10: Observation Tower at Flanders Moss

The best towers are those that you come across unexpectedly. The best towers are those you can climb up. So the very best towers combine the two. We went to Flanders Moss near Aberfoyle on holiday. Apparently the biggest area of raised bog in the UK.

Now I don't know about you but I expect a bog to be pretty flat and a bit wet. And it was horizontal and very damp but joy of joy hidden from us by the wooded approach to the bog but soon revealed was an observation tower from which to view the wet and very flat bog. Hurrah for the bog people thinking vertically.

Fairies...quite literally

I'm rather partial to a spot of wild swimming when I get the opportunity. It doesn't get much better than swimming in the Fairy Pools of Glen Brittle on Skye. There is a whole series of plunge pools, eroded away by the mountain stream coming off the Cuillins. We swam there last week. Gorgeous, gorgeous , gorgeous.

My adrenalin was so high that I didn't even find the water cold. It's just the best feeling to see life from a different perspective both literally and emotionally. The buzz is a high one.

We had just moved onto our second fairy pool when two blokes turned up. One of them asked us if the clear bristling water was really cold - we lied and said it was just fine. His friend encouraged him to get in there. He popped his trunks on and got his........ fairy wings out. What a brilliant moment. We all gave him a round of spontaneous applause and wondered why we hadn't thought to pack our own wings. It rounded off a wonderful wild swim.

Enterprise in the middle of nowhere

We had a lovely surprise on a walk we did on Skye last week. We were in the middle of nowhere with a little cottage in the distance and we came across a wee self-help café.

Hot water, coffee, tea, cold drinks in flasks and cool boxes all at £1 a shot. We tucked in. Alas the home baking had already been scoffed.

Shimmering beasties

Lots of adventures over the last two weeks on our holiday to Scotland. Came across these beautiful beasties - I can assure you they are real sculptures, even though they look quite surreal. They are the Kelpies near Falkirk. Apparently kelpies are mythical horses with the strength of ten which reflects the industry that once dwelt in and around Falkirk. They rise out of the water near the river and the canal and are breathtaking.

Swimming cap torture

The children went to their swimming lesson yesterday. We were sat at the side waiting for it to start, calmly. There were two little girls on either side of us, both nearly in tears. It wasn't the anticipation of the swimming lesson nor the fear of the water that was upsetting these girls but the dreaded placing of a rubber swimming cap over a full head of hair by a parent who has absolutely no idea how to do it quickly and effectively. It was torture to watch. I couldn't even intervene as I have absolutely no idea how to do it either.

Two dads trying to pop a very small object over a very large surface. The hats popped off, caught the children's ears, trapped their hair, contorted their faces. It teased. Just as I thought they'd done it, it would spring up and off again. The girls were definitely not impressed with their Dads' efforts. There was thumping......one Dad by his daughter. There were raised voices.....the girls remonstrating their Dads to do it properly. And eventually the heads were covered after 10 minute Herculean efforts.

Eventually the swimming teacher (oh wise and wonderful cap fitter that she is) simply popped one hat over one little girl using the correct 'getting the bloody swimming hat on' technique. It was done in seconds. I was impressed. Perhaps the technique should be taught one week in the lesson.

I popped a ponytail in H's hair and off she jumped in, capless.

Engineering in sugar and chocolate

How do you eat your chocolate tea cake?

First comes the delicate removal of the red and silver foil from your Tunnock delicacy. Don't press too hard in the wrong place or it's all lost in a squashed crumple.


Do you eat it up in one or three big bites, savouring the biscuit crunch, cloud-like marshmellow and sumptuous milk chocolate almost in one glorious instance? Then having eaten it so quickly you have the chance to grab the remaining tea cake before anyone realises. My husband (who usually eats so slowly)

Do you, feeling very naughty, deliberately cover your lips and environs in the white sticky weightless sugar, creating a white moustache and goatee beard and await a reaction from those around you? My eight year old son.

Do you make a little doorway through the fragile chocolate into the white cloud and then twist your tongue around the marshmellow and empty the dome, leaving the chocolate roof balancing, hanging there with no support. Then destroy it while attacking the biscuit floor?  All a good exercise in teeth and tongue control. My seven year old daughter and sometimes me.

Do you deconstruct the delight. Carefully and skilfully chip away the delicate layer of milk chocolate over the white fluffy dome and then lick away the marsh mellow before chomping into the biscuit base? It takes time to do it right. Me (who usually eats so quickly).

God I love 'em.

Sock it to you

We have a windsock in the garden. A multi-coloured one. It's great because not only is it pleasant to see it fluttering in the breeze but I can tell how windy it is and from which direction it blows. I then know how many layers or hats to put on when I venture out.

Today: breezy, bit dull, wind from south-east: jacket needed and umbrella.

Shop small and local

We inherited a rather wonderful looking bow saw from my dad and the farm. We tried to use it at the weekend to saw a huge log - me on one side and David on the other. Alas we could never be professional lumberjacks as we got nowhere. Actually the blade was blunt. That is our excuse and have stuck with it.

Funny thing but none of the rather splendid
illustrations actually depict women working away!

After having no luck finding a replacement blade in the bigger famous DIY stores, David remembered a thrifty hardware store in a local town. No problem - he came away with the appropriate blade. The fascinating thing about it is that we estimate from the packaging that it must have been in the store, tucked away, waiting for our visit for 30 plus years. The graphics on the packaging must date from the 1970s and are quite splendid.

Shop local, shop small, shop interesting.

Introducing........

I used to do it with my hairbrush when I was a wee lass. I did it last week with the shower head.........I talk of course of pretend microphones. My little girl got a guitar and microphone with amplifier from her grandparents for her birthday and we have all had to have a go.

I can't help talking in an Elvis Presley voice as I introduce my daughter in front of an audience of 10,000, all chanting her name and wanting more. My husband is lead guitarist and my son is chief mad fan, jumping about to the song which my star daughter has made up...well...made up but sounds very much like the Scooby Do theme tune.

We may be appearing at a stadium near you soon.x

Wood 3

We all went to The Wood again this hols. The sun shone brilliantly. It's lovely and a little alarming too to see how much new growth has appeared since last we visited. There are lots of wild primroses and there appeared to be a lot of activity around the badger setts.

 

Rainbow Friday

My daughter and one of my very best friends share a birthday. My daughter was 7 yesterday and my friend was blah blah blah years old. So big party yesterday for them both on what turned out to be a Very Good and Sunny Friday.

I asked everyone to bring a salad, I cooked a turkey and did the desserts. It all worked a treat. Easter egg hunts and egg and spoon race ensued and lots of chocolate consumed. Apologies to Mums and Dads who may well have been still trying to bring their children down from a chocolate high well into the evening.

I don't usually go in for fancy cakes but felt the need to make this one for my friend who was '21' of course:

Up a plane tree

There is a tree in the Midlands: a huge, old London Plane that is quite magnificent. We climbed it yesterday. My son, my daughter and my friend, we all climbed it and zip wired, zip-a-dee-doo-dah down.

It all started when my friend, D, decided that his partner should reclaim her childhood and climb a tree so he found a band of professional tree climbers who organise supervised climbing and booked for us all to have a go.

Off we went yesterday to Compton Verney, a beautiful old home which has been turned into an art gallery both inside and outside. It has grounds laid down by Capability Brown with lots of wonderful trees.

I am particularly proud of my soon-to-be 7 year old and my soon-to-be 9 year old for just getting on with it and climbing up there. My daughter had the most arduous route and had to negotiate a big big branch but she did it and has a tale to tell now. I did it too. It wasn't as scary as I thought it would be. I was concentrating too much!

Many thanks to Adam and Oliver of The Great Big Tree Climbing Company who made the whole experience possible. And thanks to David who when we decided to book it said "I've climbed enough trees in my time" and declined to book his place. He took all the photos but I think he did have a bit of a yen to do it himself. And thanks to D who gave us the idea and treated us to a lovely day out.

Have a go yourselves. Reclaim your childhood. You'll like it.

Stingless soup

Just made something I've wanted to do and been curious about for a long time: I made nettle soup at lunchtime. You need gloves to pick it, gloves on to wash it and cut it up but no gloves on to eat it. As soon as the nettles hit the hot stock the stings are no more.

A bit of seasoning and it is very tasty. So good, there is none left to take a photo of.

Nursery mania

You see far more on a walk than in a car. My friend and I did a new walk on Wednesday. We didn't drive anywhere. We just rambled from our houses. We picked up lots of rubber bands as we always do; found another plant nursery ( I have come to a conclusion that nurseries must be like buses - you wait ages for a local family run nursery to come along and then two pop up within a week of each other); stumbled across (not literally) a lovely wolf/dog mural and seen our local environment from a totally new perspective.

Get out there and walk.

Cardboard village

You think it's a cliché but it's true: give a child a cardboard box and they are in heaven. Yesterday we bought a new lampshade which came in a very big box.

The children came home from school, saw the empty box, commandeered it, redesigned it and had a new little home from home within ten minutes. There is a stern and all-knowing message on the outside instructing me, 'Do not shift this box'.

I will obey for a day or two at least.

Forty gaping winks

Oh dear a terrible faux pas befell me last Friday. I took C and H to see 'The Lego Movie' and I fell asleep twice. Well I like to say I snoozed. I think I got away with it the first time but was told loudly to wake up the second time by C. I think the whole auditorium heard him. I don't think I snored nor snoozed with gaping mouth but who knows? Well actually my son knows and he claims I was doing both.

C and H loved the film but I was a little bored until the last 20 minutes when a clever conceit was revealed at which point I took an interest and refrained from indulging in forty winks.

Ah embarrassing parents. I am one yet again.

Brush, tap, brush, tap

Over the years quite a few programmes on Radio 4 have done 'sound sculptures' : showcasing sounds that mean certain things to certain people. Noises are like smells and can provoke memories and evoke moods.

Brush forward, tap, brush forward, tap, brush forward, tap.......

I realised while clearing some debris from the front of the house the other day that this is one of my 'sound sculptures'. Brush forward and a tap and then a repeat. I was sweeping with a hard bristled brush. My technique being to clear the debris into a pile and then tap the brush on the ground to release any dirt that has got caught up in the bristles and then brush another pile and tap.

It took me back to mucking out time on my parent's farm. After the cows had been milked, the yard where they had congregated, waiting to be led into the parlour, had to be cleaned of cow muck. An orange bristled brush came out and brush forward, tap, brush forward, tap would ensue.

A sound made up of thousands of hard bristles rushing against the concrete to reveal a glistening floor and then a full stop to finish the sweep. A rhythmic sentence which was repeated and repeated. Part of this appealing picture was the wooden handled brush with a head of thousands of bright orange tensile hairs. To a little girl I guess it was slightly odd to see such a vibrant colour in an otherwise boring dull place.

It was a job well done. I might add it was a job I never did nor wanted to do but found it sort of fascinating. You started with a dirty yard and finished with a pristine glistening place, ready for the next milking time.

Brush, tap, brush, tap, brush, tap..............

India

I am stripping my daughter's room of its old, manky wallpaper. I am doing it very slowly: a little bit each day. Goodness knows how the decorator stripped our sitting room in one day the other week. I would lose the will to live.

Anyway it's interesting but when you are stripping wallpaper it invariably comes off in long tapered wrips, leaving India behind it.

IT is a coming

We are not a particularly proficient IT household. Our children don't have any gadgets on which to play computer games. We have a laptop and the children play a few games on that. That's how it's developed. The children haven't asked for gadgets (I can't even name you any devices!!) and we haven't encouraged them. Thus far we have got away with it. We did think that last Christmas might be the one where we had to buy something computer -related but we still got away with lego and the like.

They play lots of make-believe, watch TV, play outside, indulge in family games and seem fine about it. It's not to say that if they got their own computer game thingamajigs that we wouldn't do all of the above too but it's saved on our pockets at least.

It's my little girl's 7th birthday soon and she would like a camera. My little boy will be 9 in June and he says he wants a camera too. I asked him if he really wanted a camera or was he just copying his sister.

" I have no technology!" he pleaded with face aghast. Perhaps the time is a-coming.

Plants or children?

Yesterday we visited a nursery. I told the children we were just popping to a new nursery down the road. They looked at me a bit funny but clearly thought they would indulge their old mum.

We arrived and they looked very puzzled. There were greenhouses, flowers, plants, compost but no little kiddiwinks. They are used to garden centres but not plant nurseries. Indeed we are so used to big garden centres selling plants plus gifts plus the kitchen sink and the ubiquitous café that plant nurseries where they grow their own from seed are quite rare. Just think a garden centre that just concentrates on plants and only plants.

Well I am happy to say we have one down the road from us now. The gardener at my mum's old people's home has just bought this nursery that although on my doorstep I knew nothing about. It must have been there quite some time for it sits on Nursery Road.

The gardens at my Mum's are absolutely stunning in the summer so I have high hopes for the nursery and that somehow if I visit it often enough our garden may take on the same hues as at the home.

Owls ahoot

Believe it or not we nearly missed these

Just got back from a lovely weekend in Leeds. Mr B and I ten years married so we returned to the scene of the crime. And one of the amusements we undertook was the Leeds owl trail.

The symbol for the city is an owl and thus a lot of the buildings especially the old ones have an owl incorporated somewhere on or in the building. There are 25 to spot. You get a map from Tourist Info and off you go. It's a hoot - had to get that in.

What a great way of looking up and at buildings. We so often just have our eyes at shop window level and never really look at our architecture. It really did appeal to my collector's spirit. All sorts of owls - stone, gold, wood, stained glass, iron. Owls everywhere once you started looking.

I commend Leeds tourist bods for coming up with this free, family fun idea. I got so enthusiastic I was a little disappointed that I didn't actually see a real owl flying around.

Gold!

Have come home now with a bee in my bonnet and want to find the bees of Manchester (one of the symbols on its coat of arms). It would seem the play on words for symbols on coats of arms is never-ending!

To toss

To toss: take a deep breath, get a good action going in the wrist, have the confidence and flip.....and then catch. Good luck tomorrow with the pancakes. To toss successfully or to get into a mess with a pancake, broken on the floor that is the question.

Mine will be eaten with golden syrup, spread generously. Wonderful....and tossed.

Charity Update March

I have had a good month in the charity shops. My collection of cardigans in every possible colour and style is growing. I feel I should try to curtail the purchase of these items but they do come in so useful in the British climate. In the winter they add a cosy extra layer and in the spring and summer they are so versatile in keeping that evening chill at bay and finishing off an outfit. They aren't as bulky as a jacket which can get too warm and then is annoying when you have to carry it. A cardie is a versatile extra light layer which can be added or shed really easily. And by the way I ain't talking old men's cardies here.

You can see ironing isn't top of my list of priorities

But above all they are very very essential and wonderful in summer at concealing those upper arms which how can I put it when you reach a certain age ......can be a bit flappy!

Long live the cardie.

Charity items since last time:

Ghost silk dress (Oxfam) : £12.99
Mint Velvet silk dress (Oxfam) : £9.99 ( a sundress which definitely needs one of those cardies)
Next girl's dress (Oxfam) : £3.99
Green long sleeved t-shirt (Oxfam):£3.99
Girl's blouse (Oxfam) : £2.99
Huge book on nature (Oxfam): £4.99
Linea yellow cardigan (Barnardo's) : £3
red herring green cardigan (Britsh Red Cross) : £4

More double meanings

Had the sitting room plastered yesterday......now there's a whole new set of verbal misunderstandings.........I promise by the end of the day of being plastered I was still standing upright and quite sober.

Decorating double entendres

Oh how the English language can get you into trouble. We have finally succumbed to a decorator coming in to do his best on the sitting room. It's not been touched since we moved in seven years ago. We have lived with orangey browney walls below the dado, a dirty cream above and a green ceiling. We don't even notice now that the chimney breast has been half denuded of its anaglypta since we put a wood burning stove in six long years ago.

Anyway it couldn't go on as it is now directly juxtaposed with a brand newly decorated, spick and span dining room. I procrastinate as it is about decorating my daughter's bedroom so the sitting room wasn't going to get transformed by my clumsy hand any time during this century.

Anyway back to the fun of the English language. My friend rang up at lunch time and asked what was happening in my life to which I replied "Well there's a man stripping in the front room." Wails of laughter followed and a confirmation that it was wall paper being stripped and nothing else. My friend's joy seemed slightly tinged with disappointment.

Later I popped into the sitting room to ask if coffee was required. The decorator had resorted to a steamer to strip the awkward bits. "Gosh it's hot and steamy in here," I ventured with windows condensing and a wall of heat hitting me. I rest my case.

Liverpool Library Lives

How refreshing to be excited by a library...at least architecturally when all around me are closing. Liverpool Central Library has been transformed. Let's hope the Council can afford to continue to stock it. How fabulous to have a roof garden from which to view the Liverpool skyline and a dome  to look up to that took my breath away.

The dome of the new library

Older folks enjoying themselves - how dare they!

Lots of trips out this last week. C, H and I went to Rode Hall to view the lovely snowdrops. It's an old hall with beautiful grounds, a café and a walled garden. The kind of place that retired people with lots of time go to look round.

We got out of the car, walked down to the gardens and my 6 year old daughter piped up "They are all old people, Mummy." And there were quite a few older folks come to see the delightful snowdrops and have a coffee in the café but quite a few of the younger types too. But for the first five minutes H was quite fascinated and a little self-conscious about the prevalence of older folks, stating her dismay in quite a loud voice. Her brother on the other hand couldn't have cared less as he flung himself down the grassy manicured sloping lawns and I mean flung himself. H soon forgot about the 'older folks' and joined in too.

Wood 2

It's been half term which means a trip out to The Wood. We collected my friend and her daughter - more manpower and a playing mate for the children and met my brother and his partner at the wood. This was my third trip but no more walking through the wood and admiring it but working this time. We cleared undergrowth away from some new oak and silver birch saplings. Quite hazardous at times with branches poking in eyes and brambles drawing blood.

The children found a likely place for a den and constructed a bridge across a damp patch. C fell in the bog but was undaunted.

However, we will have to get our act together for next time. In previous journeys we have treated ourselves to lunch at a deli in the local town but this time we plumped for a campfire and a stew: cheaper and more in the spirit of wood dwelling. But we weren't very organised. What's the expression....too many cooks.... we discovered that we had no kettle in which to boil water for our morning coffee nor cups from which to drink the reviving brew. But we channelled Ray Mears and boiled water in a wok and drank French style from bowls. First hurdle crossed.

Still there was the stew to look forward to except we soon discovered we had no spoons with which to devour the stew. Well actually we had one spoon and although we are all friends together we did think it might take rather too long for seven of us to eat our delicious fish stew with one spoon no matter how bonding it might be. So one of us was dispatched to the local town and charity shop to procure 7 forks for the grand sum of 10p each. Henceforth they will be known as The Woodcraft Forks ( a gentle pun on Woodcraft Folk which my brother's daughters and his partner's son used to go to when they were children). The stew was delicious and consumed with extra appreciation with our charity forks although Ray might be a tad disappointed that we didn't hewn our own spoons from the twigs surrounding us.

Just as the rain started we packed up, all satisfied of a great day spent in The Wood.

Wildlife spotted: buzzard and evidence of badgers

Why I like modern dance

I like modern dance. My friend, Dermot, likes modern dance. Therefore, we go see modern dance. We have no dance background. We can't tell a cambre from a riff. I had to look those up by the way and I still don't understand. We are in many ways a modern dance company's favourite customer : we have no hitherto connections with the genre and yet we pay our money and watch the spectacle.

To my amateur eyes modern dance is where all the rules can be broken. A choreographer has carte blanche to interpret the music or the theme as she sees fit through dance movements. To me when it is done well I am challenged, I am surprised, I am amazed.

I want the movement to make me think. I want to wonder if the music, the set, the costumes, the movement are telling me something. I don't necessarily want a story. I want an interpretation of a sound, of an emotion. I want to live in the moment. I don't want clichés. I don't want literal. I don't want to be patronised. The choreography has to be very very special.

I love it for the sheer admiration I have for the dancers. How can they do it all so effortlessly and with such grace. I like it that the dancers don't seem to be homogenised. They all have athletic bodies but they are all slightly different. It's probably just my perception but they have personalities even when giving themselves over to the dance.

We have been to quite a few productions over the years. Anything goes really. I am open to being challenged in numerous ways but I do have two golden rules which a choreographer would do well to adhere to. The dance would have to be very superlative to win me over if it included the following misdemeanours. The dancers should never speak or sing. They should talk to me through the dance. The choreographer is being lazy if she resorts to speech. I prefer it if there is a no story. I would say it's very difficult for the choreographer to avoid falling into clichés if she is telling a chronological story. There is always a moment when they fall into a literal interpretation of an emotion or action. I don't want to see kisses to show me love. Show and surprise me in other ways.

Gosh I know nothing about dance and yet modern dance moves me to have big opinions - I love that.

Snowdrifts

I can see now why it's called a snowdrop......or perhaps the last of a snowdrift?

The rubber wars

A war has broken out where I live. Each woman for herself. Each out to prove she can be the biggest, most bouncy, the most elasticated. It's the war of the elastic rubber band balls.

As you know I am a compulsive picker-upper of rubber bands. I wind each band found onto my rubber band ball which is getting bigger and bigger but not at the exponential rate that I think it should be. Am I imagining it but are the surrounding streets just a little tidier and bereft of the little elastic twangy things.



Is this a rubber band I see before me?

Ha ha...first of all my friend, J, reveals herself. We are out walking and she stoops down before I have the chance to pick up a band. She takes it for herself. She takes it for her own rubber band ball. Apparently she and her daughter are active rubber band picker-uppers now.

Then I go see my friend, N, last night and she reveals her huge rubber band ball to which she and her friend are adding daily as they do their constitutional.

It's a thing of honour now to clean up the streets and to create the biggest monster of a rubber band ball. Whose will bounce the highest? Whose will get so large the bands will ping off?

Actually it's great that it's caught on, admittedly just between the three of us but we are doing our bit. I urge you to start your own rubber band balls but be careful it can get obsessive.

I think I'll call us the Robyn Hoods - after all we are a merry 'rubber' band of women! Oh I hear you groan - other suggestions welcome.

Mud mud inglorious mud

Mud mud glorious mud
There's nothing quite like it for .....being a real pain when you are out walking!

Here is my friend, J, on one of our walks. I asked her to stay still as I got my camera out to show the evidence of our muddy walks. Of course she slowly kept sinking and I kept fumbling with my camera phone and eventually after taking the shot, I just had to leave her there as she was stuck.....she's probably disappeared by now!

A right pickle

I got into a right pickle yesterday. What another fab phrase. I got all confused about some insurance I was taking out and the more confused I got the more mistakes I made and the deeper I dug my hole. But it wasn't a disastrous mess.

My son can't resist a pickled onion

It was a bit like my painting experiences where I get into a right pickle. It's a phrase that tells someone you have got yourself into a knot of mistakes but it's not the end of the world. You might be a bit hot under the collar but you could easily laugh yourself out of the pickle again.

I went for a walk with a friend the other day and we got into a right pickle in some mud. It has rained so much that the footpaths are just quagmires, get into the middle of the path and linger a moment and you start to sink. We felt a bit pickled.

Libraries no more

Remember back in March last year I lamented the demise of our local library? Well it's official now. Our library will disappear along with most of the other libraries in the borough. Of course, our local MP and local Councillors will say the libraries aren't going but just moving into a room in other pre-existing Council premises. But it's hard not to see 'moving to a room' as the beginning of the end.

It's hard to see how staff can maintain the level of service in a significantly smaller space with less money and presumably fewer of them. It's almost a self-perpetuating decline now. It's hard to see why numbers using the library will not just fall off because the service just won't be the excellent one it is now and then before we know it the Council won't be prepared to justify the time, effort and money to keep libraries going. Alas I don't think libraries have yet reached their nadir.

Call me cynical but it's funny isn't it that the report that sets out the future of libraries in my local borough was released just before Christmas. Funny isn't it that the local press and public haven't reacted much because they had other things to think about in the Christmas rush.

If you remember my local MP didn't seem that bothered about the threat to my library. I won't be writing another letter to my MP or Councillors because I don't trust them any more. Was it only about two years ago we were asked to vote on a number of options for the library service. We voted. And now the goalposts have changed once again. Libraries are the soft and easy target to save money. I just wish politicians would treat me as fairly intelligent and admit that the service will be poorer.

Over the last year or two my friends and I have continually lamented the end of libraries. We have even felt a rumble in the ground. Could it be that those 19th century philanthropists who gave money for the creation of places where people could learn are turning in their graves? Could it be that earlier generations of local councillors are heaving a sigh of relief that the destruction of libraries wasn't undertaken on their watch? Or is that all imagined?

Anyway let's jump forward 30 years - someone conjures up a new concept. A  revolutionary idea. A place where you can go to ask people about how to research local history and get information, borrow books, obtain support with your education, encourage children to read - all under one roof and not necessarily all on computer. What shall we call it?

Never watch children or animals

Went to see 'War Horse', the stage show, at the weekend and it was amazing. The puppetry is breath-taking. But I broke my golden rule: never watch films or plays with  children or animals in as it will only lead to profuse crying. It has a relatively happy ending and still I cried. I had mascara embarrassment in a public place.

Some of my friends may laugh at my reaction as I am not known for my overt fondness for pets or animals. Part of that may stem from the fact I am a farmer's daughter so I see animals in a more practical sense of either delivering milk or producing beef or laying eggs.  I also know the huge commitment that is involved in looking after any animal properly and kindly. But put them in a drama and I am a goner.

However, with a bit of self-psychoanalysis,  I actually think the tears all stem from watching the film, 'The Yearling', as a little child. Have you ever seen it? It stars Gregory Peck, playing a farmer in the old American pioneering days. I haven't seen it in decades but I remember it's about a young child having a young deer as a pet and basically having to shoot it because it eats the family's crops and damages fences. Cheerful, hey! Bambi has nothing on it.

I can remember crying and crying, watching it. Hence that's why I weep when I watch films about children and animals that involve even a teeny-itsy bit of sadness or cruelty plus I'm like my Dad and am a bit of a sentimental thing at heart. I suspect deep down I equate having a pet with ultimate sadness....ooh I'm into the self-analysis big time.

I certainly wouldn't survive the film of 'War Horse' especially as it's directed by Spielberg - I'd be a wreck. But don't let me put you off the stage production - it is awesome.

Charity update

Oh joy of joys last year Barnardo's in their infinite wisdom decided to open their first charity superstore not in London, as so often happens with big new initiatives, but just down the road from 88. Thank you, Barnardo's! I have two friends, S and J, and they are as charity shop obsessed as my good self....by the way, fear not I do have more than two friends...just.

Come a new season or if we feel down, we hop into the car and down the road we chug to see what gems the great Barnardo's superstore has to offer us. And oh what bounties.

The store is huge and offers up a cornucopia of different clothes, ranging from bog standard brands to designer labels. Pay anything from £2 to £30 and over for the more exclusive second hand labels. My friend, S, complains of arm ache after every visit due to the carriage of copious items of clothes on her arm in readiness for the great trying on. We should have our own engraved individual rails upon which to hang our potential buys.

Fortunately we are all three different sizes and have slightly different tastes. This way we avoid huge fights on the shop floor, arguing over the bargains. In fact, we now know each other well enough that we can spot items for each other. A shout often goes out across the shop floor 'What about this top, S?' 'This is just you, J.'

By the way J and I are in no way  jealous of S who is tall, willowy and basically could wear a bin bag and look fab. We turn it to our advantage and enjoy dressing her in all the size 8 designer labels which J and I can only gaze longingly at. Having said that J (and I am sure she won't mind me saying) has been known to squeeze herself into a few smaller-sized labels quite successfully. The problem is getting her out again.

So we are three happy girls this morning, standing in front of our new wardrobes, wondering what to dazzle the world in today. Whatismore and to the point is we've recycled and we have helped an important charity.

Charity Items since last time:

H&M stripey top £3.99 (Barnardo's)
Coast skirt £6.99 (Barnardo's) - Christmas outfit sorted in plenty of time!
Betty Jackson skirt £9.99 (Barnardo's) - never had a designer name like Betty's before!
H&M Jacket £4.99 (Barnardo's) - wore last night to a course I'm on
Regatta boy's fleece £2.99 (British Red Cross) - my son has desperately needed a fleece for mucking about in.

What's a drip here, a drop there

My Mum in her heyday was very very self-sufficient and efficient. She would do all her own decorating and she would paint the house top to toe every year. I have a sneaking suspicion that if I had stood still on one of her painting days I would have got a first coat. Although she would cover furniture and other obstacles some things did get paint-splashed here and there. Indeed she was asking  the other day how my own house painting was going and located a little speck of paint on her cardigan from days gone by. How much she wishes with all her heart and being that she could still climb a ladder with paint brush in hand and transform a room in a day instead of sat in an elderly people's home, riddled with arthritis and memories.

Anyway I only serve to mention the above in letting you know the paint school to which I subscribe ie cover with sheets as little as possible and wipe up as you go along. I am a busy Mum with things to do and can't hang around over-prepping.

I have a lot of painting to do since our extension was finished. And I am amazed where paint can transport itself. Yes I swear it's alive and deliberately lands where it knows it should not. It creeps under newspapers and stains floors; it drips on covers and then I move the cover and it streaks the floor and my most novel accident: it drips onto a spear-like plant leaf and then drips off on to the floor. I thought I was making excellent smudge-free progress and then aah I saw the damage.

I'm not very good at preparation basically.  Look closely at the non-carpeted areas in our house and you will find faintly white cirrus formations in corners or along skirting boards where I have dripped and wiped but not very immediately nor successfully. Of course this is all my own fault. My painter's report would read: 'an impatient person with no attention to detail. Virginia will not go far in the professional paint world.'


At times over the last few months I've felt I've been appearing in my own Laurel and Hardy sketch or Norman Wisdom screwball escapade. I drip paint, I wipe it up, I drip paint, I wipe it up but I wipe it up with the cloth I've just wiped it up with and just put more paint onto the floor. Then the paint laden cloth contaminates my fingers and I open the door to get to the bit of arcitrave I can't get to and then swipe paint on the lovely glass door handle that I wanted to keep pristine and then I wipe it with the cloth forgetting it's covered in paint already. It's a joy.

But here's the thing, looked on as a whole (and as long as you are not a professional decorator) it's all just fine and progress is being made. Moreover I am thankful I can still paint and regret with all my heart that my Mum cannot.

I know you're out there!

Just thought my regular readers might be interested in finding a little more about other readers of Livingat88. By my calculations there are about 10 of you who regularly read my posts - yep I'm hitting the big time here. I'll settle for quality readers not necessarily a huge quantity of you.

And I think you are mainly British, Russian, and American with a German thrown in for good measure if I can decipher the stats correctly. I assume I know most of the Britishers (loyal family and friends presumably - although they often forget to read it, don't you, David!).

I thank you all and hope you'll keep reading. Try to get in touch please. I say 'try' as I know at least one of you would like to comment more but the means by which to do so is too technically complicated or something. Perhaps that's a good thing really. I live in hope anyway.

Are you thick or what?

I was reminded today of an expression that I hadn't used for a long time. One of those expressions that turns the normal meaning of a word upside down and encapsulates perfectly a feeling or concept. One that is full of subtleties. One where the meaning has just seeped into you over the years.

We were talking about two friends who are 'very thick'. And no...we didn't mean that they are a little dim or unintelligent. We meant that they are very good and close friends. Mates who are almost inseparable, have good times together, stick up for one another. It's often difficult for other friends to penetrate that 'thickness'.

I could go on but that's defeating the meaning of the word. When my friend said 'they are very thick', I knew what she meant and no more was said.

One letter to go

What do you think about 'thank you' letters? I was brought up big on thank yous whether in person or on the page. And so now I insist on my children writing them. My children could spell 'thank you' from a very early age! Of course if they see someone and can say thank you face-to-face that's great but otherwise it's letters.

I have a theory that in this day of social media, texts, mobiles and emails that we have less meaningful communication. So many ways to keep in touch and yet sometimes we just forget to talk or say thank you. My Mum in her elderly people's home loves letters and yet she receives so few. We are all so busy it's sometimes nice to slow down and take stock.

I have a vague notion that by making the children write letters they will appreciate their gifts and the thoughts behind them all the more. Goodness knows that they receive enough and so I believe it's a way of slowing down and giving a little back instead of getting, getting, getting. I also think it makes them remember who bought them things. I'm sentimental that way.

There is also a practical aspect when presents are sent through the post that you acknowledge they have arrived!

Of course, there is a danger that they will forever resent writing the damn letters but we do it very slowly after birthdays and Christmas, doing one a day or not so I think it worth the risk. They do moan and rant a little but I'm old fashioned so won't be moved on the subject.

One letter to go!

Mr Kipling sprinkled with icing sugar

When is a biscuit not a biscuit? I have a cook book out of the library about biscuits and in it there is a recipe for Viennese Whirls. These are my very absolute favourites from childhood. I would have them at my Auntie Ivy's and they were delectable, luxurious, wondrous objects which melted in the mouth. Dusted with icing sugar, Mr Kipling was very clever. Is that Mr K sprinkled with sugar or the whirls? But are they biscuits or small cakes? I think they are small cakes, purely on the basis that they are found in the cake aisle at the supermarket.

Confession: actually the whole point of this blog is to show off my homemade Viennese Whirls. Tasteablog really does need to be invented.

Biscuit nostalgia

Did you see Nigel Slater's documentary on the 'Great British Biscuit' over the holidays? I caught up with it last night and oh what a joy. I really didn't realise how much or how many biscuits make up my history. My Mum was a great home baker and I didn't think I had been exposed to the shop-bought biscuit that much. But I was wrong when I think about my own great British biscuits. Garibaldis, digestives, pink wafers, iced gems, rich tea, fig rolls, Pppppenguins, Clubs, Tunnocks, Jacob's cream crackers. The list is endless.

I associate Penguins with starting school. My Mum gave me one every day to take to school. Which colour would I get? Think the green wrappers were my favourite. Then she thought they became too expensive and I was bereft of my Penguin.

I associate Party Rings with..well...parties. The colours were just splendid. It was beyond my experience to see these colours on something you could actually eat.

I associate iced gems with little miracles of colour too and a treat. Lovely tiny little kisses of colour. Do you pop it whole in the mouth or bite the top off?

I associate Clubs with visits to my Auntie Ivy's. And in those days the chocolate was laden so thickly on them that I agree with Nigel Slater: you really could carefully bite off all the chocolate and be left with the biscuit within untouched. You'd find it difficult today.

Pink wafers....well they were pink and had a sweet, almost perfumed smell and taste.

I associate Tunnock bars with walking in my teens. My Mum suddenly started buying them from Morrisons and introduced me. We would have them on picnics.

I associate custard creams with taking them apart and scraping off the cream with my two front teeth.

Garibaldis were the moreish biscuit for me. Have one and you are done for. You have to break off the whole row and start on the next.

Bourbon biscuits were always disappointing. Chocolate biscuits but not quite chocolate somehow. Bit malty? They had a strange almost stale taste that to me didn't go with how they looked. Bourbons would definitely be my last biscuit remaining in the tin.

At tea times in my Mum's elderly people's home, the care staff bring round a biscuit tray of pink wafers, fig rolls, custard creams, digestives and a few others. Pink wafers are definitely the most popular. It's somehow very comforting, civilised and reassuring to see that tray.

I'm off to the supermarket. I may linger in the biscuit aisle.

Rubber band ball update 4

The rubber band ball continues to grow. Got a friend collecting them now and she collected twenty bands on one walk the other day - shocking!

Big boots found in charity shops

I read a newspaper article last week suggesting that charity shops were getting too greedy and charging too much for their goods. I think this was based on charity shops in the heart of London as I have to say it hasn't been my experience on the whole in the north of England.

The first charity shop harvest of my year

I love charity shops. I am a little addicted but I am not prepared to pay silly money for second hand clothes (nor for first hand either for that matter). I guess charity shop managers have to strike a balance between raising as much money as possible and charging a market value for their area for old clothes and bric-a-brac.

Thinking about it I can't actually say with any conviction what I am prepared to pay. Am I willing to pay a quarter of what I think the original price was? I don't know. It's more a feeling in my water as to what I think is reasonable for a label or object. It would take a lot for me to pay over £10 for anything. It would have to be a second hand gem. I go into a charity shop with the anticipation that I just might find a bargain not to break the bank.

Mary Portas did a programme a year or two ago where she transformed a charity shop into a boutique charity shop and by doing so I think lost the plot a little. I don't want to go into a charity shop and smell damp and old clothes but neither do I want to go into one that is emulating a boutique or up-market goods shop. Charity shops are a breed on their own.

I think Oxfam has got it just right. I know some think they are expensive but I think they strike the right balance between raising the maximum money from the stock they have and charging reasonable rates, depending on the label.

I like the décor of the Oxfam shop. I recognise them still as charity shops which are clean but with a certain untidiness to the shelves, especially in the bric-a-brac sections. Their new goods such as cards and gifts are also in designated sections and are of good quality. I think some charity shops that sell their 'own label' products make the mistake of mixing them up with the second hand goods and quite frankly are of such tatty and cheap quality that I have to really examine to ascertain whether they are new or old.

I also don't really want really slick people behind the sales counter. I don't mind (as long as I am not in a rush) some volunteer who gets in a muddle with the till and has to call the manager. It's a bit of an escape from corporate customer care.

Anyway I just hope that the charity shops that I frequent don't get too big for their boots.

I thought that for my own amusement I would keep a record of my charity bargains for 2014. So here goes:

M & S Autograph top £3.99 (Barnardo's)
Boden child's pyjamas £2.99 (Oxfam)
Striped scarf £2.99 (Oxfam)

Something fishy

I rather like cooking. I am not a very instinctive cook. I can't really conjure up cordon bleu fare from just a handful of ingredients and no recipe. I really need some guidance and have come to the conclusion that the recipe books I love most are written by cooks that give me some leeway, that give me just a little wriggle room to improvise and make slight amendments. The writers who start me off and then let me roam the fridge and store cupboard are the best 'in my recipe books'.

One of my family's favourites is a coconut fish soup or chowder to which I can add whatever I like or have in the cupboard or freezer. The idea came from a Rachel Allen recipe which I have run with for quite a few years and to which I occasionally return to to set me back on the straight and narrow if I run too far from the tasty path.

The base is a stock of finely cut onions - actually who can or indeed has the patience to cut onions really finely? The base is a stock of onions whichever way you want to cut them (sometimes I don't even add the onions), garlic, a bit of ginger if you have it, a bit of lemon grass if you have it, a tin of coconut milk, some stock and then add whatever you have. We had it yesterday with prawns, scallops, spring onions, mangetout but you can add a tin of tuna or crabmeat or broccoli or green beans or pak choi. Add some noodles and a splash of fish sauce - actually it's just occurred to me that yesterday I forgot the noodles. Every time it's slightly different but every time fab. Then when it's in your bowl add a splash of sweet chilli sauce if you like. And on the table in less than 20 minutes.

New Wood

The Blakeleys have a new project for 2014. Well not specifically our project but one we are keen to help with. My brother has bought a wood. Not a piece of wood for the fire but a 7 acre forest wood with trees! We all went en famille yesterday to visit it. As we were walking through it my brother got the phone call to verify that it was his wood. Wow, your very own wood to play in.

The children are very excited and want to go every weekend. It's in North Yorkshire so it is a bit of a journey but one we are keen to make every so often. There is much to do like making a camping area, clearing bracken and dead wood, planting new trees, building dens, making swings, creating an archery area, oh the list is endless. I think we are all excited and a little in awe of the task ahead but we will go with the flow and see what 2014 brings. Fear not, I'll keep you up-to-date with all things wooden.

Wildlife spotted: buzzard, owl

What was in that box?

I have taken down the Christmas tree this morning and the rest of the festive decorations. I almost enjoy packing them away as much as I do unleashing them in the middle of December. Have you noticed that even when you think you've taken down all the baubles and you are about to lift the tree out into the garden you always find one solitary hiding bauble, secreted away in the branches? But it's a new year and a new start so away they go.

Not many casualties this year. My son managed to annihilate one bauble, target shooting with his newly acquired Nerf gun. I even managed to break one of my old glass tree decorations, knocking it with the vacuum cleaner (that will teach me to be clean and tidy) which I felt sad about as I had inherited it from my Auntie.

It's funny but I get a huge amount of pleasure from unwrapping each little glass sphere each year and realising again how lovely they are. I even love the old cardboard box they are stored in. This morning I carefully wrapped each bauble and popped it back in the box. It has on my Auntie's old address, handwritten in ink, from more than 40 years ago. You can tell how old it is as it doesn't have a postcode. And each year I wonder what she received through the post in that box, in an era before Amazon and internet shopping when getting a parcel through the post, delivered to your front door, must have been thrilling.

Aah well it only remains for me to hoover up the trail of pine needles shed by the departing Christmas tree.