In which Wal probably had the right idea

I had to allow myself a bit of extra sleep this morning, despite the clocks going forward, as when I woke I wasn’t feeling particularly rested. Neither would you be if you’d been dreaming that you were on the run. I don’t remember who or what was after me, but I didn’t want to be caught, thank you very much. I was out near the main road that runs through my village when a friendly face appeared. Lindy, with her family tagging along, talked to me for a while until her husband Wal decided they absolutely had to go, because it was just too dangerous being around me.

They walked to a nearby house (a dreamland conglomeration of two real houses) and went inside with Lindy’s daughter calling my name from her pushchair. That’s sweet, I thought, I didn’t know she knew my name. I couldn’t give it too much more thought though, as I was preoccupied with what I was now doing. That is, raking through a dustbin. Inside was the rotting top of one of my pumpkins I had discarded months before and … all manner of other compostable materials.

Hoarding and labelling

Not whoring and ladling, that’s different. I attempted a bit of a spring clean this week. Except, I did it the other day and now I can’t remember what happened. It used to tick me off when Dooce would start a story with “recently” or “yesterday”, I’d be left thinking, “oh great, and NOW you’re telling me?”. But anyway, Lauren was home poorly sick on Wednesday and I narrated to her via email my tales of not wanting to work, but wanting to throw crap away, so they can act as an aide memoire.

I have a “craft drawer” full of tat that I hoard, thinking that it’ll be useful one day. You know, that day I turn into someone else who is actually crafty. I’m not crafty enough to warrant a big drawer full of bits of foam, jars of beads and bits of ribbon. The bits of cardboard can be useful, but that doesn’t mean I have to grab every bit I see.

So, some stuff has been turned out, with – I hope – more to follow. I also turned my attention to the other two drawers and turfed out bendy rollers (how very 1990s) and a heated hair tong thing that never really worked and a few other bits to the charity shop. From the craft drawer I donated my pastels, oil paint set (!) and oil pastels to Mum’s school. It turns out, I’m not an artist and I ~~barely~~ don’t know how to use them.

I was right to check inside the box of the oil paints set. I got it when I was much younger, at a time when my love for marker pens was a passionate one, but my need for them was limited. Thus my use of them would be woefully limited if I didn’t come up with an idea fast. This is where the labelling comes in. Let’s write my name on everything I own! Multiple times! Yeah! And when that’s not appropriate, let’s just write the name of the object onto the object! Yeah!

And so it came to pass that the oil paints went to Mum’s school without their box, the pastels without their carboard insert, the daler board! stayed with me and the 15″ ruler (mine! mine! mine!) was tucked back into the drawer, a reminder of that innocent time when I used to buy marker pens and ruin all my stuff for the future.

No-Cook Treats (assuming melting isn’t cooking)

These treats are full of bran, which I think officially cancels out all the fat and sugar that must be in the other ingredients. It’s yummy; a bit of a bugger to make and you might lose a tooth while eating it, but I think it’s worth it.

225g cereal bran
60g chopped peanuts
285g golden syrup
225g peanut butter
1 tsp vanilla essence
115g plain or milk chocolate

1. Weigh out the cereal bran and peanuts. Chop the peanuts now if you bought whole nuts. Leaving it until later could lead to vital things solidifying while you’re chopping. I hate it when vital things solidify.

2. Mix the syrup and peanut butter together in a large saucepan. Melt together over a medium heat, stirring until the mixture begins to boil.

3. Remove from the heat. Stir in the cereal bran, chopped peanuts and vanilla essence. Not all at once though, because this is damn difficult. At several points I had that “any minute now I’m going to injure myself” feeling. I wonder if it would be easier if you didn’t remove the pan from the heat, but simply turned it down a little. Stir until well-blended and you’ve come close to burning yourself a couple of times.

4. Spread the mixture into a greased baking tin (7″ x 11″). Press out evenly using a number of spoons and fingers. Burn your fingertips a little. Chill for 1 hour. (The mixture, not you)

5. Turn out onto greaseproof paper. Melt the chocolate and spread over the top (of the mixture, not you) using a palette knife. Cut into squares when set.

Recipe from “Mary Ford’s Biscuit Recipes” (ISBN 1-85479-519-8), with photos and “helpful advice” from me.

Click for the set

7 Days – Spring 2008 mosaic

The 7 Days self-portrait project.

Crazy, huh? There were 47 of us this time, coming together to share self-portraits and bits of our lives for a week. We had new babies, new bumps, upcoming nuptials, birthdays and magic tricks. We’ll be starting the summer run in mid-June.

Swan Lake, or, as I call it: Men in tights

The Russian State Ballet of Siberia brought their touring production of Swan Lake to the theatre in Tunbridge Wells yesterday and Suzy and I were there in our (relative) finery, ready to enjoy the evening with the ladies and gentlemen of the town. UK readers may know Tunbridge Wells residents to be of a type; the sort of people who write indignant letters to The Times and sign their name as “Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells”. In short, posh people whom Suzy and I stand ready to mock. (For the record, my social class lies somewhere between posh and common, enabling me to see myself as far better than either.) We came to take our seats in the tiered stalls and found that Granny, Old-Looking Mother and Granddaughter of Tunbridge Wells were in our seats. No problem, we took theirs, putting us more central to the action, but seriously, was it really beyond them to look at the bloody numbers on the chairs? Observation was perhaps not a talent rife that evening, as exhibited by the woman I’d seen in the foyer trying to talk to someone on her mobile. Intent on finding a signal she had absentmindedly walked right up to the door of the disabled toilet and with her head practically resting on the wood, she was calling, “Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?”. And was then nearly knocked to the ground as the door was pushed open outwards by the perplexed person trying to leave.

Seated in the auditorium, with my linen jacket screwed up behind me so as to perfect the concertina-effect on the arms by the end of the evening, we took in our surroundings. The orchestra was warming-up and around us young girls in ballet gear and big fancy dresses were taking their seats with their mothers adorned in pearl necklaces. The Messrs Tunbridge Wells and their respective wives were out in force, sporting a variety of ill-advised outfits and hairdos, the best of which was to be found just a few seats away. Suzy noticed it first and it wasn’t long before we were both just staring (possibly open-mouthed), unable to fully comprehend its full awsomeness. The ‘do started as a ponytail, the tail then being pulled up to the front of the head and folded under, held in place there with combs and at the back with bright red hair clips – to match the bright red outfit.

Just before the house lights went down and the state orchestra began to play I heard Granny Tunbridge Wells chide her young charge in pained tones: “Please don’t talk about football at the ballet, Anya. I can’t bear it.”

So to the ballet. Ladies, have you ever been to the ballet? No, scrub that. Ladies, have you ever seen male ballet dancers in tights? That sight alone is worth the price of the ticket. I don’t really remember much of what happened, except there were men in tights leaping about and spinning. Oh, the spinning! There was a bloke in yellow – the prince’s wingman or something – and, if I knew who he was and how to contact him, I would scrape together whatever money I could find, buy him and watch him pirouette for me all day.

I didn’t read the story of Swan Lake before going to the theatre, because I didn’t want any surprises to be ruined. Quite what sort of devilish thriller I thought I was attending, I don’t know. Knowing exactly what was happening would have been more useful than “having an idea”, because the end took me completely by surprise. Suddenly everyone was taking their bows and the audience was clapping and clapping. I turned to Suzy and asked, “Were you expecting it to end then?” I had totally missed any sense of conclusion and was relieved to find that Suzy had felt the same. The white prince had disappeared off with the bad bloke in a clever whirl of fabric and then the gorgeous swan danced some more and suddenly that was it. Thank God for a Wikipedia synopsis, right?

The skill and athleticism of the dancers was mesmerising. The ballerina dancing the role of Odette had the longest, most graceful arms I’ve seen. When she first appeared she was lit by a spotlight from above, her movements exactly fitting within the shaft of light. You could quite understand the prince falling for her in that moment. Ah, the prince. Agile and strong. And wearing tights.

7 Days – Day 7: I’ll see YOU next time!

Man alive, I’m exhausted. Thank goodness it’s the weekend now and I get to have a lie-in at last! Thanks for another fun week, guys and gals. I’ll follow up with the traditional mosaic soon. You know, once I’ve had a chance to sleep for 18 hours straight.

Meanwhile, at Mum’s behest I’ve set up the 7 Days map. If you’re a member of the group past or present why not add yourself to the map so we can see just how widespread this vanity has become?

7 Days – Day 6: More treasure!

Good God my thighs hurt. What have I done to them? I’ve done a lot of standing and a few hours of sitting on the train recently, but why do the fronts of my thighs hurt so? Walking could currently really only be classed as “hobbling and cursing”.

I went to the supermarket today to pick up a ready meal as Mum and Dad are out this evening. Hobbling and (silently) cursing my way round the aisles I spied a half eaten apple sitting on the shelf next to packets of pasta. MINE! I grabbed it and held it hidden up inside my coat sleeve lest someone think I’d taken it myself from the fruit section. I took that treasure home, chopped it up and threw it into my compost bin along with a couple of days’ worth of vegetable scraps and all Russ’s teabags. Chew on that, wormies.