Chilly but undeterred

Despite the frosts and cold winds of recent nights and days, the back yard and the front patch are bursting with vigour.

Brightly coloured...

And somewhat subtler...

And of course, a small cat.

Or two.

They keep an eye on Nature's progress.

Achievement

Dismantling this horrible and surprisingly very heavy desk, donated from someone's office revamp and used (rarely) in the small attic as a workbench for stained glass, lugging it down several flights of stairs, through the house and out into the back lane for the council to collect, was today's task.

The metal legs are hidden from the scrap-man's view, and the screw thingummies are neatly bagged up and taped inside one of the drawers in case someone desperate wants to salvage it. Back lanes are great places for scavenging and finding things you never knew you wanted till now.

There is also a very basic Ikea table and its screw-on legs out there. I was in chucking-out mode today. My heroes, the Neighbourhood Response Team, and their little travelling wagon may pick it up tomorrow. I nominated them for a council staff award one year, and they were thrilled; their certificate is carried with them in the wagon.

It was my third attempt to get rid of the desk. I had spent a fair amount of time on hands and knees underneath it, peering upwards, mystified, to find how it was held together. Once I remembered to do this with benefit of specs, I realised that it was held together by those screw thingummies that require an allan key, and not a screwdriver. And after I had found an allan key (in the tea towel drawer - where else would you look?) the desk was almost easy to dismember. But still very heavy, in the way of chipboard desks and other mass-produced junk furniture. I'm tired, but smug. A small patch of floor has been cleared, and I have actually thrown some things away. 

Eat your greens, flaunt your reds

The allotment (oh my aching back!) yielded a fresh green soup today. Two kinds of sorrel, spinach (the everlasting sort) and ground elder. I didn't photograph all of it, but there was a generous bagful.

Several of the last remaining leeks were pulled. And another large armful of rhubarb, some of which I donated to two admiring students as I passed them on their doorstep today. One asked eagerly "Oh, where did you get all that rhubarb?" and after a discussion about cooking methods, they were delighted to receive a heap of it.

Meantime, the rhubarb patch continues to produce... and produce... and produce...

I love that rhubarb patch; no matter how neglected the plot, it allows me to pretend I'm a proper gardener, as I totter up the hill with a heavy bag of potential crumbles, jam and ice cream.

I was amused and interested by the comments posted earlier about the poppy, and thought you might like to see more of it and the Horror Patch in which it grows. There's so much variation in when things will grow in this country - usually I'm the one wondering if and when a green shoot will ever appear while some of you (mountainear!) are harvesting the first potatoes.

The North East is cold (just notice and compare the temperatures on the weather forecast maps if you don't believe me!) but being in a city offers some degree of warmth and shelter from the scouring winds off the North Sea. This may be barely noticeable to us, but is obviously of some help to plants. And snails. And greenfly.

My tiny front garden is very sheltered, as is this street - walk round the corner and you are cut in two by an icy wind - and if the soil were deeper and better, I could perform miracles in it, I'm sure (oops, my nose is growing....). As it is, it has an unruly jungly episode around this time, and is mostly dead and dried out by August.

Here lives the Venerable and Indestructible Oriental Poppy, an old trouper that goes on and on, usually until the first frosts get it, but last year, even in a hard winter, managing to produce flowers beyond its season.

This was taken on Nov. 28th 2009 when the last tiny flower appeared:

and this is it today, bursting out of its bodice in the most unseemly manner:

It is propagated by root cuttings, not seeds, and sulks terribly for the first year, but after that, it's a thug. Bumblebees rattle around in its enormous blooms, and nothing seems to prey on it.

Oh, and then there's the path. I've been dying to show you the path. Last month, the front path, weedy, shabby and vandalised by British Gas, looked like this, a visual deterrent to any future viewer of my house:

Although, most peculiarly, many people said they'd never noticed my path, until I had it Improved. Which happened thus:

Mark the Paver and some Indian sandstone. Dust and noise.

Until......

Definitely Improved. Next chapter of Mission Impossible will be to tidy up that jungle a bit, paint the front door, and keep the brasses polished. House valuation day is inching ever closer. The poppy and I will have to be more disciplined in our habits from now on.

poppy!

In front of my house today.

The first of many yet to come.

A word of advice...

...from one who (now) knows: don't start playing with your Blogger template unless you are:

• not tired and grumpy from all that election-following and too much telly
• a bit dim when it comes to toggling effectively between old and new templates
• capable of being decisive about colours
• able to pick colours that don't look like an unexciting range of make-up
• patient enough to go and unpick it all when you decide that you hate it 
• not a person who says rather too readily "Sod this!" and goes off to make a cup of tea over which to sulk

I'm off for a cup of tea and a sulk now.

Long night

So tired......

We gave up on television at midnight; instead, we lay in bed and listened in the dark to the election results coming in on the radio, till around 3.30 a.m.

That'll teach us.

Some of us are staying bed today.

We're depressed.

What did you do?

.

Polling Day

Give me one good reason to vote.....

That'll do.

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Birthday party. No cats.

The dog says she's sorry, but she loved her cake so much that she forgot to share it with anyone. She hopes you won't be too upset. She thought you'd like the recipe, as it's a prizewinner. She's having a post-party nap now.

Tiny Cake for Tiny Dog (aged 10)

Ingredients:

• 1 tiny tin of posh cat food in jelly (in this case, sardine and mackerel for a little dog who loves fish)

• I slice Gouda cheese

• milk drops (for cats)

• catnip drops (also for cats)

Method:

• Shut cats out of kitchen to avoid being mobbed during cake-making

• Ignore pitiful cries from other side of door

• Turn jellied cat food out of tin onto small plate

• Avoid stepping on anxiously-hovering, drooling dog 

• Cut strips of Gouda cheese to size; wrap round smelly appetising fish and jelly cake

• Apologise to dog for stepping on her

• Decorate cake with milk and catnip drops, feeling a bit silly

• Light candle to allow dog time to appreciate your singing of 'Happy Birthday'

• Remove candle, break cake up with fork, and serve

• 53 seconds later, remove empty, well-polished plate 

• Spend next ten minutes explaining to the cats why they were locked out so that the dog wouldn't be outnumbered, bullied and robbed of her birthday cake

• Compensate cats with cheese, catnip and a little guilt

• Avoid the dog's breath for the rest of the evening

Dog years

And the next day, the dog moved in to live with me. She attached herself to my ankle for several months. Anxious attachment all right.

We had never been sure just how old she was, and thought she was around 3 years old. So I gave her an Official Birthday, just like the Queen.

Happy 10th Birthday, Tosca!

We'll be Trooping the Colour later on.

Remembering my mother

Seven years ago today, quite unexpectedly and without warning, my mother died. She was 85, and as vivid and lively, especially in her voice and views, as she had ever been.

She enjoyed being able to say, when ticked off by her disapproving doctor or daughter (me)  for continuing to smoke, "Well, I won't die young because of it!" And neither she did.

I hope she knew how quickly the end came; she had a horror of a lingering, enfeebled old age, fearing the spectre of dementia or inability to care for herself. Amidst our grief and shock, there was also relief for her that she departed as she would so ardently have wished - quickly, easily, and without fuss.

She left a wealth of memories, expressions and opinions which continue to live on in our little family. She loved and was loved, and won't be forgotten.

Dear Teddy, you left a big gap, and oh, you are missed.

What I did on my (Bank) Holiday

This. Sitting on a low chair, shredding the personal, sorting the non-personal for recycling, marvelling at my house's capacity for secretly storing tons of unwanted papers.

There's no way you can shred without mess.

And, out of sight, or perhaps even not yet discovered, still so much more to be shredded!

It breeds, you know, all that paper. It multiplies in the night, in the forgotten bags and boxes, in the drawers and cupboards, in the filing basket that you would swear you emptied six months ago, but find that it holds stuff dated 2002..... Payslips, fuel bills, mortgage agreements, vet bills from little cats long gone.

And of course, I haven't found what I was really looking for, the one document that, if found as soon as I started looking, could have saved me from this shredding madness. Now I must go on to the bitter end.

There's no one willing to help.

One for Anne

Oh dear.

My sister Anne is huffed with me, affronted that I posted the photograph she took of the Santa Maria on Fridge Soup, and not on Slow Lane Life. So here it is again. One cannot leave one's little sister in a huff. The consequences could be dire.

The big scary cruise ship is my little sister in a huff. There will be big guns hidden somewhere. The tiny but plucky guessed-at replica of the Santa Maria is me, ploughing humbly along in a tubby breathless sort of way, doing my best, hoping not to be capsized by sisterly wrath. BTW, I renounce any connection to slavery on my voyage of apology.

The photo was taken in pouring rain off Madeira during the recent great Volcanic Ash Extended Holiday period.

There you are, Anne. Your moment of glory.

Except.... she can do even better than that, and bring a host of other people into the limelight with her. Yesterday, one of her school drama groups received a prestigious Diana Award for their play about bullying.

If you want to:

a) see my lovely sister (who is going to kill me for this)
b) see the play itself - including the delightful "Realistically-Human-Hand-Controlled  Companions"
c) try your hand at understanding Glaswegian as it is spoken in Castlemilk

then have a look at this:



She emailed me today:

We had a delightful day at the City Chambers to receive our Diana anti-bullying award. Various councillors and the Lord Provost (the Lord Prophet according to one of my girls) made a big deal of us being given the honour of a ceremony in such a prestigious venue. 


The respectme director, a staunch socialist, said in his speech that, as a Glaswegian, he was also delighted to welcome everyone to "'oor hoose', because that's what it is - OOR hoose". 


It was all very haphazardly organised by very nice, very posh ladies who seemed in a permanent twitter. My weans couldn't understand a word they very sweetly said, so translation was needed as the weans gawped in fascination at these strange, alien creatures who spoke oddly but seemed to mean no harm. 


The award was a thrill because everyone told them all day how very special the 'Diana alumni' are and even if the kids didn't have a clue what an alumni was, they got the gist that it was A GOOD THING to be.
Much fun had by all.


(Translator's note: 'weans' - children, wee ones. Pron. 'wanes'.)


My sister has taught for countless years - since she was little more than a wean herself - at a school (once Europe's largest comprehensive; now half its original size) in one of Glasgow's most socially deprived areas. Her drama classes have had some resounding successes, ranging routinely from children being brought out of a tightly-confined housing estate to a wider, more diverse world they would otherwise never have seen, to some pupils going on to become professional actors. She has refused to be defeated by the effects on her pupils of inter-generational drug and alcohol abuse, poverty and despair, and somehow has managed to hold on to her early vision of what education should offer children in even the most difficult conditions.


She retires in July, when, instead of flying off to a Greek island as planned, I suspect she will dissolve for ever into a lake of tears. And she won't be alone; she will be greatly missed. Every school should have teachers with her dedication, care and commitment to their weans. I am enormously proud of her. 


I wonder if the Lord Prophet could give her an award too? 

Nation of dog lovers

Well, isn't that what we're supposed to be? Of course we are; we love love love dogs, here in Britain. They're our best friends, aren't they?

I was in the waiting room of the PDSA Animal Hospital today with Margery and one of her elderly cats. The PDSA is situated on the edge of one of the more challenging housing estates, and Margery had a choice of getting there via two buses, or by expensive taxi, or (as a last, detestable resort) with her horrible brother, who would have berated her continuously for having cats at all, urging her to have them put down. So I took her. We anticipated bad news; sympathy and support would be necessary.

Margery is back on form these days, and cheerful; all those recent unpleasant tests revealed nothing life-threatening, but a straightforward hiatus hernia. She says that oddly, it doesn't seem to affect her when she eats chocolate or other fattening things.

The PDSA waiting room was full to overflowing, with five terribly young-looking vets on duty. You know you're getting old when vets look like fifth-formers.... Margery, the great animal lover, dedicated vegetarian, caring pet rescuer-rehomer, with hardly two pennies to rub together, tutted a little at how many pedigree dogs there were: "You never see a mongrel in here - and these people are supposed to be poor!" There were some huge, beautiful and very expensive animals in there, as well a handful of status-signifier Staffies, and an uncontrollable, barking, growling, leash-straining collie-cross being mismanaged by two unaccompanied children.

One young woman's story caused outrage.

She had brought a very pretty Alsatian puppy, who was doing that funny puppy-melodrama thing when expected to wait patiently for a long time in an unfamiliar and crowded place: audible suffering. She howled and yelped, and wriggled and bounced, and wanted everyone to pay attention to her, and so they did. She was very sweet - sweeter perhaps if she'd had a volume control knob, but sweet nevertheless, with huge ears and paws that needed a good deal of growing in to. It was evident that her owner loved her.

The owner had spotted the puppy advertised on Gumtree: price £450. She had always wanted an Alsatian, but couldn't afford one at that price, and anyway, wasn't quite ready to take on a dog yet.

Until she saw that the puppy hadn't sold, and was now on offer as a swap - for a Playstation 3. So she bought her.

Thank goodness that some people love dogs for themselves.

PS Margery's old Tigger needs dental work, if planned tests show that she can cope with an anaesthetic. During examination, it was found that she was completely blind. Margery and I drove home in a state of mild shock; she hadn't realised.

We go back on May 12th. The wheels of the pressurised PDSA turn very slowly.

Let us plant lettuce....

Off to the allotment today to plant Little Gem lettuces. They are bursting out of their seed tray.  At the end of the street, the trees are greening up nicely, with crab apples in flower.

And little faces in the grass.

Vale House, a pensioners' ghetto, with its new improved windows, has been painted, and looks worse than ever.  Before (blue/grey):

And today (bland sand). The scaffolding is still up, because all the new windows must now be professionally cleaned, being spattered with paint. What project management, I hear you ask?

Nearing the allotment gate, a robin sits on the fence, ignoring the scruffy barbed wire. At the foot of the fence is the smelliest manure ever, donated by the local stables. I've spared you the sight.

The robin is waiting for the dog and I to pass, so he can get on with picking through it.

The allotments are taking shape. Between us, we have the national collection of dandelions.

I just love the ramshackleness of it down here; it resists gentrification and order, yet there are some wonderful gardeners amongst us. I don't include myself in this category.

Chris's little apple tree is in flower.

Alan's three tulips are shining out.

My rhubarb is suddenly bursting with vim and vigour.

I plant the lettuces, cover them with a cloche, feed the roses, dig another bed, wrestling with the tough roots of couch grass, and pull an armful of rhubarb. I have brought a sharp knife from home, as the one in the shed is blunt. And predictably, I cut my finger while trimming and bleed dramatically onto the large leaves.

My back tells me it's time to go home. On the way back to the gate, old Tommy tells me delightedly that he spotted five swallows the other day. Another hopeful sign.

Today's villain sees me looking at him from the kitchen window as I wash rhubarb stems. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

Just a memory....

I'm glad I took a snapshot of these the other day. Humble supermarket tulips, last year's bulbs forgotten in their bucket over the harsh winter; only one lost. They deepened in colour as they opened fully.

Enter Tulipomaniac Cat again.

Tulips, and only tulips, are his passion.

He's in big trouble now.

And so is my fantasy of a future garden with swathes of lovely tulips.

Thinks.... "Swathes" sounds good......