The best thing about this Live Feed widget is the constant pleasure of discovering the glorious place names that come (sometimes wrongly - out by 1000 miles, one of you said) with the visitors. Wolfville, Antigonish, Germantown, Ambala, Decatur, Tassin-la-demi-lune, Trois-rivieres....so evocative, so mysterious, so completely unknown to me, and thus ripe for fantasising as to the inhabitants, what they wear, how they talk, who named their towns. I want to visit them all. Especially Wolfville....
Sorry, Milton Keynes and Birmingham, I've visited you already. I know you aren't magically suspended in time, somewhere around the mid-1600s, although I'll grant that you do speak an unusual form of English.
Monday, 22 June 2009
Sunday, 21 June 2009
Ooh, they don't half go on!
Making bread used to be a fairly straightforward procedure in my household, back in the days when Doris Grant's wholesome, wholewheat, mix-rise-bake, no-nonsense, that's-what-your-teeth-are-for loaf of great sturdiness was what we liked. But today I fancied something whiter, fancier, flavoursome in a more interesting and possibly sweeter way, so I dragged down all my baking books and started to search. The lovely fresh yeast waiting in the fridge began to twitch in anticipation.
I browsed the experts, and my enthusiasm started to wilt. What an opinionated bunch today's artisan bakers are! So much high-flown text - miles of it, so many injunctions, so much to terrify or at least turn off the butterfly-minded who only wanted to knock something up today, not in four days or even months after leaving tubs of something mysterious to grow in the fridge - I have lots of those already, thank you, though they might not be best suited to breadmaking (or human health). I didn't want a treatise on the alchemy of natural leavens and sourdough starters. I resented being told that my kneading technique was all wrong, and that only the French knew how to do it properly. Silly me, I thought that was kissing....The only thing that appealed was a story of Russia's equivalent of Mrs Beeton, writing in the mid-19th Century, who described proving the dough in a bucket of water: when it floated to the surface, it could be put in the oven. I might try that one some time, just for the hell of it.
Eventually, thoroughly put off by the preciousness and superiority that oozed from their pages, I packed up the great and the good, suppressing feelings of both irritation and unworthiness, and made a choice between an old faithful and a plain and simple guide. The old faithful, my ancient, stained and much-loved 1970 copy of the Tassajara Bread Book has always been an absorbing read, but today it wouldn't do. It is filled with joyous text, sweet little sketches, and sometimes delightfully relaxed recipes, for example those several calling for 2-8 eggs (you choose), but I didn't want to have to think much today. I wanted to be told, straightforwardly, to Do...melt...add...mix...wait (and have a cup of tea and maybe do some gardening) and then come back and Do some more; no theory, no science, no elaborate explaining why only This Way is the Right Way or scorn for anyone who ever bought a loaf from a supermarket.
So the plain and simple, Rachel Allen's cardamom bread, not even made with bread flour, won in the end over the delightfully greedy Tassajara monks, and is sitting in the boiler cupboard, swelling in the most modest and self-effacing way, as I write. The kitchen smells of freshly-ground cardamom seeds, obediently removed from 28 pods (see, today I did prefer to be told just what to do), and now I only need to go and do that bit of gardening while whatever it is that happens to flour and yeast and water (no, don't tell me, I don't care!) takes its course.
If it turns out well, I might take a picture. If it doesn't, I'll eat it anyway, sharing it with Roger, who brought me the yeast and is thus Chief Taster. As the Tassajara book says, "Bake the bread, and the yeast dies. Slice it, butter it, eat it. Be thankful." And so we shall.
I browsed the experts, and my enthusiasm started to wilt. What an opinionated bunch today's artisan bakers are! So much high-flown text - miles of it, so many injunctions, so much to terrify or at least turn off the butterfly-minded who only wanted to knock something up today, not in four days or even months after leaving tubs of something mysterious to grow in the fridge - I have lots of those already, thank you, though they might not be best suited to breadmaking (or human health). I didn't want a treatise on the alchemy of natural leavens and sourdough starters. I resented being told that my kneading technique was all wrong, and that only the French knew how to do it properly. Silly me, I thought that was kissing....The only thing that appealed was a story of Russia's equivalent of Mrs Beeton, writing in the mid-19th Century, who described proving the dough in a bucket of water: when it floated to the surface, it could be put in the oven. I might try that one some time, just for the hell of it.
Eventually, thoroughly put off by the preciousness and superiority that oozed from their pages, I packed up the great and the good, suppressing feelings of both irritation and unworthiness, and made a choice between an old faithful and a plain and simple guide. The old faithful, my ancient, stained and much-loved 1970 copy of the Tassajara Bread Book has always been an absorbing read, but today it wouldn't do. It is filled with joyous text, sweet little sketches, and sometimes delightfully relaxed recipes, for example those several calling for 2-8 eggs (you choose), but I didn't want to have to think much today. I wanted to be told, straightforwardly, to Do...melt...add...mix...wait (and have a cup of tea and maybe do some gardening) and then come back and Do some more; no theory, no science, no elaborate explaining why only This Way is the Right Way or scorn for anyone who ever bought a loaf from a supermarket.
So the plain and simple, Rachel Allen's cardamom bread, not even made with bread flour, won in the end over the delightfully greedy Tassajara monks, and is sitting in the boiler cupboard, swelling in the most modest and self-effacing way, as I write. The kitchen smells of freshly-ground cardamom seeds, obediently removed from 28 pods (see, today I did prefer to be told just what to do), and now I only need to go and do that bit of gardening while whatever it is that happens to flour and yeast and water (no, don't tell me, I don't care!) takes its course.
If it turns out well, I might take a picture. If it doesn't, I'll eat it anyway, sharing it with Roger, who brought me the yeast and is thus Chief Taster. As the Tassajara book says, "Bake the bread, and the yeast dies. Slice it, butter it, eat it. Be thankful." And so we shall.
Saturday, 20 June 2009
Oh no!
Millie's fur fetish gets worse. That nasty-looking object I've just spotted amongst the cat biscuits was once the favoured toy - a 5-inch-long strip of fur, very useful for throwing in the air and catching with the utmost ferocity, and with a handy bell that was excellent for waking up sleeping humans before dawn, if the throwing and catching didn't do it first.
This is all that remains. I fear for Millie's insides, although I suppose fur is quite digestible - except cat fur, of course, which has to be barfed up on the clean duvet.
The cat toy budget is going to be slashed. The existing and despised stockpile of velour, cotton, fake-fur and stripey knitted mice will remain available on request, but there will be no more special trips to the smelly petfood warehouse to buy the real fur versions. I never felt easy about them anyway, but somehow couldn't resist when I found how much she loved them, and how eagerly she played with them.
I suppose she might be telling me something. And I should be pleased that she didn't eat the bell.
This is all that remains. I fear for Millie's insides, although I suppose fur is quite digestible - except cat fur, of course, which has to be barfed up on the clean duvet.
The cat toy budget is going to be slashed. The existing and despised stockpile of velour, cotton, fake-fur and stripey knitted mice will remain available on request, but there will be no more special trips to the smelly petfood warehouse to buy the real fur versions. I never felt easy about them anyway, but somehow couldn't resist when I found how much she loved them, and how eagerly she played with them.
I suppose she might be telling me something. And I should be pleased that she didn't eat the bell.
Friday, 19 June 2009
Table manners and the art of mouse chomping
Millie loves these teeny toy mice more than any other toy, except for a larger strip of fur with a bell on. But after months of playing nicely with them, she has suddenly taken to chewing them up, probably inspired by the dog, who will steal and chomp them whenever she gets the chance - although the dog's chomping involves a lot of laborious gum work rather than the use of teeth, resulting in a soggy, flattened mouse that is then hidden in her bed.
But Millie is evidently a more refined creature than the dog, because she takes the mouse to her dish to chew it up. If I remove it, she will just retrieve it and put it back in her bowl, along with her biscuits, and carry on demolishing it. Clearly, this cat went to finishing school in a former life, whereas, obviously, I didn't.
Next: Millie teaches me how to use a finger bowl.
peas and beans means pleased!
Not that I'm easily excited or anything, but after several years of total pea failure, I'm rather thrilled to have spotted these two young things today. I know, I'm a bit sad, but the truth is that I'm a haphazard and disorganised gardener who, the moment she arrives on the allotment, forgets everything she has spent hours reading up, and who invariably loses and forgets the crop rotation diagram.
I will spare you the neighbouring stunted sweetcorn or the mysterious missing brussels sprouts. Last year the carrot seedlings disappeared, but this year they are thriving in their sand-filled barrels, and the second-attempt French beans are swarming up their canes in a spirited fashion. Even the experimental soya has sprouted at last, although as I know nobody who has grown this before, I have no idea what to expect.
You can see that the weeds in the background are doing pretty well too.
Thursday, 18 June 2009
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
a tale of three aunties
In all this house-sorting that is absorbing my waking hours, I've been going through heaps of old photographs that my mother inherited from her sister, my Tante Mimi. In the process, I have unearthed this crumbly old damp-damaged picture. The writing on the back, signed by my Tante Georgette, who was their sister-in-law, suggests that it was given by her to my other aunt, Agnes, the much-younger adopted child who came into the family unable to speak French, thus changing the family's tongue from French to Flemish overnight.
I would like to think it is a photo of Tante Georgette herself, but I can't be sure. It might, indeed, be some famous celebrity or film star, although it is hard to imagine my aunts and mother treasuring such a photograph amongst all the family pictures that range over at least 80 years. None of them are alive to consult.
So I'll choose to say it is Tante Georgette, famous in the family for being arrested by the Gestapo in place of her husband, Oncle Cyril, who had escaped to the South of France; she was held for some weeks in a civilian prison, until complications in her pregnancy prompted her release. After the war, she was the only member of this family, with all its derring-do, to have a war pension - a prisoner of war pension.
The last time I met her was when we visited on my 6th birthday, and my memories of that encounter focus entirely on two less-than-thrilling events: the present from my 3 older cousins, two blue-checked pinafores of the sort nice little girls on the Continent still wore over their day dresses, and which it was hard for a six-year-old to receive with untrammelled joy, and the birthday tea.
Or perhaps it was just tea. Not for us jelly and ice cream, cake with candles, and finger rolls with egg and cress. I forget everything that was on the table except....oh horror!.... the large impossible slices of jellied tongue. Tante Georgette herself seemed just like everyone else's mother, ready to cajole, fuss, pile plates high with food, and to try to persuade me, a horribly squeamish little girl with a deep and lasting loathing of any meats with jelly or fat attached, to just try this particular delight. My mother joined in - she suffered on a daily basis from my squeamishness, and food presented us with many opportunities to engage in mutual torment.
So, it might be Tante Georgette in this picture, glamorous, mysterious, and far removed from maternal irritations, or it might not. But this is how I would prefer to think of her.
I would like to think it is a photo of Tante Georgette herself, but I can't be sure. It might, indeed, be some famous celebrity or film star, although it is hard to imagine my aunts and mother treasuring such a photograph amongst all the family pictures that range over at least 80 years. None of them are alive to consult.
So I'll choose to say it is Tante Georgette, famous in the family for being arrested by the Gestapo in place of her husband, Oncle Cyril, who had escaped to the South of France; she was held for some weeks in a civilian prison, until complications in her pregnancy prompted her release. After the war, she was the only member of this family, with all its derring-do, to have a war pension - a prisoner of war pension.
The last time I met her was when we visited on my 6th birthday, and my memories of that encounter focus entirely on two less-than-thrilling events: the present from my 3 older cousins, two blue-checked pinafores of the sort nice little girls on the Continent still wore over their day dresses, and which it was hard for a six-year-old to receive with untrammelled joy, and the birthday tea.
Or perhaps it was just tea. Not for us jelly and ice cream, cake with candles, and finger rolls with egg and cress. I forget everything that was on the table except....oh horror!.... the large impossible slices of jellied tongue. Tante Georgette herself seemed just like everyone else's mother, ready to cajole, fuss, pile plates high with food, and to try to persuade me, a horribly squeamish little girl with a deep and lasting loathing of any meats with jelly or fat attached, to just try this particular delight. My mother joined in - she suffered on a daily basis from my squeamishness, and food presented us with many opportunities to engage in mutual torment.
So, it might be Tante Georgette in this picture, glamorous, mysterious, and far removed from maternal irritations, or it might not. But this is how I would prefer to think of her.
Monday, 15 June 2009
Visiting the neighbours
All the way down the back lane on top of everyone's yard walls to Suzy's tree, checking carefully to see if Big Fat Hattie is around. Could BFH be a friend? She looks more like a predator, full of less cautious kittens. Maybe safest to stay where I am - BFH will never get her portly carcass up here!
Sunday, 14 June 2009
making friends 2 (or not)
And this attempt wasn't so successful. Large grey cat appeared at top of (scruffy) back lane. Millie was in paroxysms of delight: new friend on the horizon! Some stalking, aloofness, attempts to outstare, until I got bored with the cat version of Glacial Speed Dating and went back indoors.
Lottie remained behind a wheelie bin; was she the chaperone, or just a scaredy cat?
After ten minutes, Millie flew in, wildly rattling the catflap, the fur on her side loosened in tufts suggestive of a hefty swipe by her new friend. Other than being a little over-excited, which is her default position anyway, she seemed unharmed, although happy to remain indoors with me.
I went out to find, and possibly rescue, timid Lottie, to find her sitting nose to nose with the grey stranger, all fluffed up to twice her usual size, and a distinct air of "Touch my little sister again, matey, and you'll have me to deal with!"
But she let me pick her up and carry her home. Discretion is the better part of valour, after all.
Lottie remained behind a wheelie bin; was she the chaperone, or just a scaredy cat?
After ten minutes, Millie flew in, wildly rattling the catflap, the fur on her side loosened in tufts suggestive of a hefty swipe by her new friend. Other than being a little over-excited, which is her default position anyway, she seemed unharmed, although happy to remain indoors with me.
I went out to find, and possibly rescue, timid Lottie, to find her sitting nose to nose with the grey stranger, all fluffed up to twice her usual size, and a distinct air of "Touch my little sister again, matey, and you'll have me to deal with!"
But she let me pick her up and carry her home. Discretion is the better part of valour, after all.
making friends 1
This is Millie with Toffee, a young cat who lives across the back lane. They met for the first time last week, stared fixedly at each other for a long time, spat politely once or twice, and hummed up and down the scale a little, just to establish that each was a fierce young tiger not to be trifled with.
Then Millie made her mind up that Toffee was in fact there to be trifled with, barged past her and let herself into Toffee's house through the open back door, played a little with Toffee's toy mouse, and disappeared into the further reaches of the kitchen, where no doubt she put her face into all the saucepans and any cupboards that were standing open. I called her in vain, and banged on the back door, also in vain, eventually walking round to the front door to tell the occupants that they were being burgled by an 8-month old kitten. Of course they fell in love with her, and told her so, and she, flushed with success, has tried to burgle them again several times since.
Then Millie made her mind up that Toffee was in fact there to be trifled with, barged past her and let herself into Toffee's house through the open back door, played a little with Toffee's toy mouse, and disappeared into the further reaches of the kitchen, where no doubt she put her face into all the saucepans and any cupboards that were standing open. I called her in vain, and banged on the back door, also in vain, eventually walking round to the front door to tell the occupants that they were being burgled by an 8-month old kitten. Of course they fell in love with her, and told her so, and she, flushed with success, has tried to burgle them again several times since.
Saturday, 13 June 2009
postal pleasures
Click to enlarge, as they say.
I complain (often) that I never get anything nice in the post, just junk, and regular notification of fuel bills going up. But this has been an excellent week for post: my new audio CDs, and two £25 Premium Bond prizes from the normally tight-fisted Ernie.
And this, which arrived yesterday from PG of Middle of Nowhere. Layers of delight: first there was a teeny little red stamp with her logo, Red Flannel Designs, then a tiny egg-shaped sticker, followed by a glimpse of her beautiful cards, and then - ta-ra! - 2 packs of cards depicting the loveliest saggy, baggy, patched, much-loved-looking animals going about their evocative and mysterious business. You can find her work here.
Grumpy postman, so hated by the dog, you can keep on bringing me post like this, please.
I complain (often) that I never get anything nice in the post, just junk, and regular notification of fuel bills going up. But this has been an excellent week for post: my new audio CDs, and two £25 Premium Bond prizes from the normally tight-fisted Ernie.
And this, which arrived yesterday from PG of Middle of Nowhere. Layers of delight: first there was a teeny little red stamp with her logo, Red Flannel Designs, then a tiny egg-shaped sticker, followed by a glimpse of her beautiful cards, and then - ta-ra! - 2 packs of cards depicting the loveliest saggy, baggy, patched, much-loved-looking animals going about their evocative and mysterious business. You can find her work here.
Grumpy postman, so hated by the dog, you can keep on bringing me post like this, please.
Friday, 12 June 2009
a bit better?
That's 2 CDs-worth of priming and Farrow & Ball's Off White acrylic eggshell, a nicer shade in real life than it looks here. Near the small chair are the trunk and a little shelf awaiting their turn.
Now, having looked at these pictures, I'll go and straighten those books, shall I? And do something with the lamp wire. No, nothing sinister or self-harming, but the temptation has been there today.
Now, having looked at these pictures, I'll go and straighten those books, shall I? And do something with the lamp wire. No, nothing sinister or self-harming, but the temptation has been there today.
Thursday, 11 June 2009
consolation
but before I could throw myself in the river, this arrived in the post. A treat to myself, ordered at a time when I must have known subconsciously that there would be moments of bleak horror ahead, like furniture-painting day. I already have the audiobook of Juliet Stevenson reading 'Persuasion' - the only thing that kept me sane on that nightmare journey to Australia - and I know that she has a special affinity with Jane Austen's work. I stalked this on Amazon for a long time before I felt sufficiently deserving to have it, and it can be my furniture-painting soundtrack for the duration. I can share my despair at how fiddly painting a bookcase is with my exasperation at that milksop Fanny Price, and have a good mutter to myself; always very satisfying, a good mutter.
the will to live
is rapidly draining away from my enfeebled being.
Amongst my many ill-assorted possessions are several items of cheap, mass-produced bits of furniture that could, if you stretch the imagination sufficiently (i.e. a lot), be transformed into a reasonable stab at a Scumble Goosie-type of loveliness at a fraction of the cost. The cost of paint, that is, not the human cost to my mental and emotional wellbeing.
So far, I have painted some walls (that was fine; quick and rewarding), primed a bookcase and a small table (slightly tedious and a bit smelly), and applied part of the first coat of paint on said bookcase. Still to be done: finish first coat, apply second coat, varnish twice. Then do the same with small tables (two) and a trunk. It's hardly technically taxing, but it's soooooooooooo boring, and I am soooooooooooo not in touch with my furniture painting side. Or maybe just bone idle. Whatever.
This may take some time, because of all the stopping to sigh, make cups of tea, read other blogs, look out of the window pondering the meaning of thrift, and consider the case for half-painted furniture as the new aesthetic.
Or, because she said that painting furniture was a lovely occupation, just persuading Lesley to take on the task in exchange for home made cakes and ice cream.
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
Daze of the week
I woke up this morning and I just knew it was Sunday. It took about 10 minutes for reality to dawn. But in those 10 minutes I was suddenly, intensely, completely in touch with the awfulness of Sundays when I was growing up. The dullness, the dreariness, the extra-long church services (twice!), the sheer boring length of the day.... worst of all was the compulsory television hour of my joyless boarding school, everyone squashed on hard benches in the assembly hall, watching a flickering black and white tv in the dark. I could still feel ill with hatred at the thought of Captain Pugwash.
I suppose it gave the Sisters some time off (apart from the old killjoy who was in charge to make sure no one enjoyed themselves too much, or, indeed, moved). I wonder what they did while we were imprisoned in the echoing gloom? Danced sedately to old Glenn Miller records? ("You be the male lead, Sr. St John of the Cross - your feet are big enough to be a man's.") Traded holy pictures? ("I'll give you two Saint Bernadettes for that St Maria Goretti!") or sat in corners and gossiped about Reverend Mother? ("She seems awfully keen on talking to that new priest, Father Fiery-Pitts. He's a bit too Vatican II, if you ask me, with that little dog collar and a cricket jersey.")
So, today, being Tuesday, has been wonderful, just wonderful, mostly for not being a Sunday.
I suppose it gave the Sisters some time off (apart from the old killjoy who was in charge to make sure no one enjoyed themselves too much, or, indeed, moved). I wonder what they did while we were imprisoned in the echoing gloom? Danced sedately to old Glenn Miller records? ("You be the male lead, Sr. St John of the Cross - your feet are big enough to be a man's.") Traded holy pictures? ("I'll give you two Saint Bernadettes for that St Maria Goretti!") or sat in corners and gossiped about Reverend Mother? ("She seems awfully keen on talking to that new priest, Father Fiery-Pitts. He's a bit too Vatican II, if you ask me, with that little dog collar and a cricket jersey.")
So, today, being Tuesday, has been wonderful, just wonderful, mostly for not being a Sunday.
Monday, 8 June 2009
Tag!
Mrs Bagwash from The Life Laundry has tagged me thus:
What is your current obsession?
Getting this old house painted throughout/ attic cleared of junk, so I can have it valued and put on the market, and move to somewhere warmer. Note: obsession doesn't necessarily mean decisive action
What is your weirdest obsession?
Er, none. In my book, weird = not good. Clean towels in bathroom, though = good
What are you wearing today?
Black linen trousers. Black/grey striped cotton top. Socks (well, it's June in Britain!). Possibly scarf, gloves and duvet coat if I dare go out
What's for dinner?
Some veggie stirfry/rice noodles/black bean sauce concoction that never looks glossy and well-separated like it does in food magazines. Food diary fortnight prohibits silliness and loss of self-control in the dinner department
What would you eat for your last meal?
A mound of fluffy mashed potato and extra butter - what else comes with it doesn't matter, and neither does a food diary
What's the last thing you bought?
Cat food for Millie who tells me she is starving to death because the kitten food is poison
What are you listening to right now?
Radio 4. Aren't you?
What do you think of the person who tagged you?
Interesting person! Would like to know more about her course. Could post more often on her blog (hint)
If you could have a house totally paid for, fully furnished, anywhere in the world, where would you like it to be?
Australia. Blue Mountains current favourite, but need to explore more of that amazing country before making final choice
If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?
Where my son is, if I could lure him away from work for an hour to talk and drink coffee. I haven't seen him since March (sniff...)
Which language do you want to learn?
Ooh, learn? From scratch? All that grammar and those difficult tenses? None. But I wish I could speak Japanese already. Sounds totally different according to the speaker being a man or a woman. Klingon would be good too, for those bad-tempered moments
What's your favourite quote (for now)?
Quoting my friend Annie: Get a grip
What is your favourite colour?
Today? Dark purplish grey
What is your favourite piece of clothing in your own wardrobe?
Erm.... it's all awful. I am a slob who lives in loose pants and tops, and lumpy fleeces. I have a loving memory, though, of a tiny chocolate-brown Biba dress with lots of little buttons. Worn till it fell to bits. ....from the first hand-drawn catalogue. Yes, I'm that old - Biba's hand-drawn catalogue
What is your dream job?
Only nightmare jobs come to mind now I've retired. Dream week = one where there is nothing scheduled, nothing at all
Describe your personal style
Plain. Simple. No frills or busy patterns. Nothing to weep over if a cat jumps on me, crampons fully engaged, or I spill my lunch down my front. Both frequent events
What is your favourite tree?
Beech, the bigger the better
What are you going to do after this?
Go to the post office, bracing myself for shock and outrage at how much it costs to send a small package
What is your favourite fruit?
Cherries. Especially those huge black American ones that you need to remortgage your house to afford
What inspires you?
Sunny days. Sometimes pictures in magazines of beautiful homes. (sometimes these induce despair instead...)
Your favourite books?
Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre. Hans Christian Andersen's Fairy Tales, especially The Snow Queen
What are you currently reading?
Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town: Stephen Leacock (a present from Shelagh in Toronto)
Go to your bookshelf, take down the first book with a red spine you see, turn to page 26 and type out the first line (sentence)
So familiar is the Sweet Mignonette of our gardens, and so like and yet unlike are the wild species, that whilst no one would take them for the garden plant, one need not be a botanist to see their natural affinities at a glance.
(Wayside and Woodland Blossoms; A Pocket Guide to British Wild Flowers by Edward Step, F.L.S. p. 1905)
What delighted you the most today?
A lengthy, badly-written, heavily sarcastic rant by one of the locals, mocked-up as a Lib Dem newsletter, and hand-delivered, presumably to every house round here, complaining bitterly about the residents' parking scheme in the neighbouring area that has pushed all the surplus cars into our area instead. It's anonymous, as his earlier enraged missives have been, but he is so often seen waving his arms and shouting at some poor captive neighbour, that everyone knows who he is and what his current obsession is. No neighbourhood should be without one.
By what criteria do you judge a person?
Seriously? How nice they are to their children. Not (so) seriously? State of their armpits, teeth, bathroom towels
My added question: Were you ever in love with a film star? Who? How old were you?
Well, you weren't expecting something weighty, were you? Aaaahhhh.....Dirk Bogarde......me at 11.....doomed love was ever my forte.....
The rules:
What is your current obsession?
Getting this old house painted throughout/ attic cleared of junk, so I can have it valued and put on the market, and move to somewhere warmer. Note: obsession doesn't necessarily mean decisive action
What is your weirdest obsession?
Er, none. In my book, weird = not good. Clean towels in bathroom, though = good
What are you wearing today?
Black linen trousers. Black/grey striped cotton top. Socks (well, it's June in Britain!). Possibly scarf, gloves and duvet coat if I dare go out
What's for dinner?
Some veggie stirfry/rice noodles/black bean sauce concoction that never looks glossy and well-separated like it does in food magazines. Food diary fortnight prohibits silliness and loss of self-control in the dinner department
What would you eat for your last meal?
A mound of fluffy mashed potato and extra butter - what else comes with it doesn't matter, and neither does a food diary
What's the last thing you bought?
Cat food for Millie who tells me she is starving to death because the kitten food is poison
What are you listening to right now?
Radio 4. Aren't you?
What do you think of the person who tagged you?
Interesting person! Would like to know more about her course. Could post more often on her blog (hint)
If you could have a house totally paid for, fully furnished, anywhere in the world, where would you like it to be?
Australia. Blue Mountains current favourite, but need to explore more of that amazing country before making final choice
If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?
Where my son is, if I could lure him away from work for an hour to talk and drink coffee. I haven't seen him since March (sniff...)
Which language do you want to learn?
Ooh, learn? From scratch? All that grammar and those difficult tenses? None. But I wish I could speak Japanese already. Sounds totally different according to the speaker being a man or a woman. Klingon would be good too, for those bad-tempered moments
What's your favourite quote (for now)?
Quoting my friend Annie: Get a grip
What is your favourite colour?
Today? Dark purplish grey
What is your favourite piece of clothing in your own wardrobe?
Erm.... it's all awful. I am a slob who lives in loose pants and tops, and lumpy fleeces. I have a loving memory, though, of a tiny chocolate-brown Biba dress with lots of little buttons. Worn till it fell to bits. ....from the first hand-drawn catalogue. Yes, I'm that old - Biba's hand-drawn catalogue
What is your dream job?
Only nightmare jobs come to mind now I've retired. Dream week = one where there is nothing scheduled, nothing at all
Describe your personal style
Plain. Simple. No frills or busy patterns. Nothing to weep over if a cat jumps on me, crampons fully engaged, or I spill my lunch down my front. Both frequent events
What is your favourite tree?
Beech, the bigger the better
What are you going to do after this?
Go to the post office, bracing myself for shock and outrage at how much it costs to send a small package
What is your favourite fruit?
Cherries. Especially those huge black American ones that you need to remortgage your house to afford
What inspires you?
Sunny days. Sometimes pictures in magazines of beautiful homes. (sometimes these induce despair instead...)
Your favourite books?
Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre. Hans Christian Andersen's Fairy Tales, especially The Snow Queen
What are you currently reading?
Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town: Stephen Leacock (a present from Shelagh in Toronto)
Go to your bookshelf, take down the first book with a red spine you see, turn to page 26 and type out the first line (sentence)
So familiar is the Sweet Mignonette of our gardens, and so like and yet unlike are the wild species, that whilst no one would take them for the garden plant, one need not be a botanist to see their natural affinities at a glance.
(Wayside and Woodland Blossoms; A Pocket Guide to British Wild Flowers by Edward Step, F.L.S. p. 1905)
What delighted you the most today?
A lengthy, badly-written, heavily sarcastic rant by one of the locals, mocked-up as a Lib Dem newsletter, and hand-delivered, presumably to every house round here, complaining bitterly about the residents' parking scheme in the neighbouring area that has pushed all the surplus cars into our area instead. It's anonymous, as his earlier enraged missives have been, but he is so often seen waving his arms and shouting at some poor captive neighbour, that everyone knows who he is and what his current obsession is. No neighbourhood should be without one.
By what criteria do you judge a person?
Seriously? How nice they are to their children. Not (so) seriously? State of their armpits, teeth, bathroom towels
My added question: Were you ever in love with a film star? Who? How old were you?
Well, you weren't expecting something weighty, were you? Aaaahhhh.....Dirk Bogarde......me at 11.....doomed love was ever my forte.....
The rules:
- Respond and rework: answer the questions on your blog, replace one question you dislike with a question of your own, add one more question of your own. (How does that work then? Wouldn't it be an ever-expanding list of questions? Who would want to be Taggee Number 207? How would you know which question I've deleted if I've answered it? My tiny brain hurts now.) I'll just mark the question I've added, and you can mess up the process at will. Don't even try to explain this to me; I'm too dim.
- Tag eight other people.
So, that means you, dear peeps! : Lauren (My Aunt June), Mountainear, Susan (29 Black Street), Marie (Don Estorbo's servant), Isabelle (In This Life), PG (Middle of Nowhere), Judy (Every Day is a Gift), Kristina (Jolly Hockey Sticks). Sorry if you are all tagged out and hate the thought of another one. Say something under your breath in Klingon, and ignore me.
because you asked
Why guinea pig? Well, I meant experimental subject, really. Guinea pigs, like rats, rabbits, mice and many other creatures that we humans think are there for us to treat just as we like, used in medical and scientific research, and a whole raft of spurious and repetitive experiments besides, that humans could test perfectly well in their place, making me wonder if karmic consequences, including "As we sow, so shall we reap" will apply in due course.
But that's another discussion altogether; it's too early in the day for me to be frothing at the mouth about the cosmetics industry, and this blog specialises in drivel and trivia rather than well-thought-out argument on serious topics.
In this case, the Grand Mohnstrudel Experiment was benign - in intent, anyway - and I included myself in the subject group, so that's all right then. All we had to suffer for the sake of the experiment was a little weight gain. (And at my age, that's likely to be permanent weight gain. One has to suffer for one's art, perhaps.)
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