Filling in the gaps

August already.

My birthday month (I'm Liz and I'm a Leo, grrr).

Time marches on. 

Although it feels like it stopped at the beginning of the year.

The days are by no means dragging but it's like I'm treading water (not that I've ever tread actual water).

Despite some easing of restrictions nationally, I seem to be still mostly living life to the lockdown beat. 

There's food shopping once a week, dog walking every night, and whatever I feel like the rest of the time.

The garden's had more attention than it would usually and stuff is actually growing.  The rose display was the best yet and now the hydrangeas are putting on a good show.  The pond is still problematic. There was an emergency when the water stopped flowing, which had implications for the remaining fish, and I didn't have a clue what to do.  Cue much Googling and Youtube video watching and hey presto, pond pump located, cleaned and up and running once again.  I've found a local company who can undertake a proper maintenance and cleaning job on it and just need to persuade the now far from rational/ reasonable mister that this would be the best option (for me and the fish).  

Two conifers in the front garden had outgrown their space (I was forever reversing into one of them) and it was time to have them removed.  The resulting space has been strewn with grass seed and watered religiously.  At the moment it's looking a tad, erm, tufty but hopefully will fill out over time.  

Talking of filling out, if the size of my backside is anything to go by, there's been far too much baking going on.  Cakes, biscuits, flapjacks, buns, crumbles (using redcurrants gifted from my neighbour), bread.  You name it, my oven has delivered it.  I've called a halt for the time being and am trying to cook and eat sensibly  (definitely not on a diet, a less cereal, more fruit kind of thing, but I would like to become reacquainted with my jeans).

Sometimes there's a bit of knitting (I've been buying kits from here, three so far) and, despite an ongoing issue with maintaining focus, there's always a book on the go (I've just finished what is undoubtedly the best book I've read so far this year and which may even be one of my best reads ever) and I'm currently loving this.

Unfortunately, yoga hasn't been happening much at all after I injured a hamstring, probably as a result of stupidly over stretching (at my age, you'd think I'd know better). 

I've (somewhat nervously) left the house for reasons other than buying food.  There's been an appointment with my GP ('Wear a face mask'.  'I haven't got one yet'.  'Well, just cover your face with something'. The buff I found in a drawer seemed a better option than a tea towel) and then one with the oncologist ('I like your face mask.'  'Thanks. I've just bought it.  Cost me 45 quid.'  'Someone saw you coming.') at the hospital in another town (don't worry, I'm fine). 

I've been to the dental surgery three times after the crown (neither my dentist nor I will ever forget that particular day) from my tooth fell out (I'm never chewing gum again).  More recently, I've had my hair cut and coloured and I've braved the local park for socially distanced catch ups with a couple of lovely friends.  Yesterday, after a highly stressful start to the day, I got in the car, parked by the river, sat and read my book, people and dog watched.   It helped.  

Deprived of conversation most days, I'm probably still talking far too much to supermarket staff (and to the poor bloke who came to fix the washing machine) but, thankfully, since we've been part of his 'support bubble', the Boy has been able to pop over at weekends, providing some much appreciated company and chat (and help with the removal of bags and bags of garden rubbish).

Then, last Sunday, the littlest and his parents drove up from Manchester to join in the Boy's birthday celebrations (a picnic in the Priory followed by mint choc chip ice cream cake and champagne back here), the first time we've seen them since February. 

The soon to be 5 littlest has grown.  A lot.  And currently speaks with an American accent ( 'Hey, Mom!').

So, that's what I've been up to since I last posted.  Nothing wildly exciting.  Not all bad.  Ticking over. 

But I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a permanent knot in my stomach, that living with someone with dementia isn't testing me to my limits, that I wasn't missing my old life, that I wasn't wishing for the old rhythm.  

I know there'll be no neat and tidy finale to this seemingly interminable pandemic and that the way ahead is paved with oh so much uncertainty (difficult for those of us who like to plan and have adventures of one sort or another in the pipeline, to have something to look forward to).

Heeding the advice of the wellbeing gurus, I'm trying to focus less on what isn't possible and can't be planned for and more on what I have and can still do.  Being more comfortable with the uncomfortable.

It ain't easy.

Baby steps, baby steps.

 

Lockdown rambling

I finished another knitted jumper.  It kept the old fingers busy (fingers covered in skin that would be at home on the back of a crocodile, it's so dry with all the handwashing) but is probably destined for the Wear That? Not On Your Nelly pile.

Boo was on the receiving end of a shampoo and cut (actually cuts, I've had two goes so far) yesterday. He'd gotten so hirsute he was beginning to resemble Cousin It.  He seemed to enjoy the experience, although maybe all the tail wagging was more a case of 'I'll keep it moving in case she hacks it off'.  Now he's more Barry Manilow than cocker spaniel.  I'm thanking my lucky stars that I'm responsible for the evening dog walk.  In the dark.  

I had a stab at cleaning the pond which was looking uncared for (probably because it is, like a lot of stuff here these days, although the cutlery drawer is pristine).  This involved working out how to operate the vacuum cleaner to remove the sludge at the bottom, which, apparently, is a bad thing.  With the help of a YouTube (naturally) video, I managed it, although I was concerned I'd suck up the fish (not that I've spotted any; if they've any sense, they'll have already upped and offed).  The water doesn't look any clearer but I'm reliably informed that that's not a bad thing.  Next,  the filter and pump need degunking but I need to locate them first.  I suspect they're immersed in the water and it might help if I knew what they look like before trawling the depths in rubber gloves.  

The comfort eating here has reached Olympian heights.  I'm going for gold.  Lunch one day was a giant bag of salted popcorn.  Dinner was an entire packet of Oreos and a hot cross bun (no 'butter', I didn't want to over-egg the pudding).  Supper was what was left of a vegan chocolate bar, two Polo mints and a Rennie.  Last night's menu was more about real food – crispy coated polenta cakes topped with ratatouille, puy lentils and griddled tenderstem broccoli, finished with a sprinkling of nutritional yeast for me, finely grated Italian cheese for the mister.  It was very tasty and looked pretty but there's less washing up when you eat crap.

Cherry blossom is strutting its stuff in the front garden, the camellia is doing the same in the back.  The grass (that's stretching it, it's more mossy clumps than rolling greensward) is ready for another cut but the green bin and a green bag are already overflowing (I have no idea why the garden is continuously covered in twigs and branches, though I have a funny feeling about one of the houses that backs onto ours) and collections haven't restarted yet

I grew up in a shop and I love shopping (as did my parents and brother, come to think of it).   But the weekly circuit of the supermarket is anything but enjoyable.  It's the exact opposite of enjoyable. The Sainsburys branch I use has now installed crowd control.  Well, that was the wording on the back of the bomber jacket the elderly man sitting on a fold-up chair outside the entrance was wearing.  The crowd waiting to be allowed in was well behaved (well, it was just me and Crowd Control called me Madam). 

Once inside, it was more about dodging the other trolleys to keep the required distance, and avoiding doing anything that might be construed as loitering, than finding essential items (unpacking at home was interesting).  And everyone I encountered glared, like I was riddled with nasties.   It was a relief to get back into the car where, armed with a pack of treasured antibac wipes, I scrupulously cleaned  hands, steering wheel and door handles.  I shoved a wipe up my nostrils, too, just to be on the safe side.  

Easter will be very strange in this, the year of the virus, but I've hung little wooden eggs on some pussy willow branches and a modestly sized Simnel cake (just the vegan Christmas cake recipe with the addition of a ton of marzipan) will be baked.  I think I have all the ingredients.  If not, I'll substitute.

Or as my dad used to say, there is no bread. We'll have to eat toast.

 

Weekending

The littlest and his mother visited for a belated celebration of the mister's birthday and we spent Saturday afternoon mooching around the market town up the road, intending to make the most of the pre-Ciara weather. 

We kicked off with a tasty lunch in a newish Italian cafe, showing remarkable restraint in the presence of an array of cakes and bakes (honestly, they were on every surface), walked along the riverside, popped into the churchyard to examine the snowdrops, stocked up the larder and bathroom from another recent addition to the high street and made a few purchases in the charity shop. 

I chose three books (I want to make just about everything from the preserves book, I recently watched the film of the Rhidian Brook novel and fancied extending my limited knowledge of Buddhism), a print (which reminded me of the little wood near our house but was greeted with a says-it-all stony silence by the others, huh, philistines) and a wonderfully soft shirt (which looks unworn).  All for the unprincely sum of £3.98.   

Back at home, we voted on dinner options.

'Let's celebrate with a sausage', suggested littlest.  After some lengthy deliberation, we eventually went down the takeaway pizza/curry route.  The mister preferred fruit from the fridge.  

The day finished with candles, an enthusiastic rendition of the birthday song and generous slices of cake (plus a side of extra Smarties for some) with a couple of episodes of this (gravity defying, body torturing, relentless hard graft with some very sad back stories).

Sunday continued in much the same vein, if a tad gustier and wetter, with a leisurely breakfast, a meet-up with the Boy, lunch in a coffee shop, food shopping, the usual stuff. 

All too soon we were waving the visitors off but there was an evening on the sofa in the company of the latest knitting project (a bag, this one, knitted in one piece, lining, handles, the lot, and which currently looks like a scarf with holes) and Agatha Christie on the telly to look forward to.  

I love weekends, me.

 

Lately

We've been spending time (not to mention mucho dinero) on replacing a raft of boring but essential items which had seemingly conspired to simultaneously give up the ghost.  Things like a bed, a fridge freezer, an oven, a washing machine, a steam iron and a garden pond pump (two of the biggest fish were sad casualties of this particular malfunction, though they were given a decent burial under the whitebeam at the bottom of the garden which I must remember before embarking on the usual slap-happy spade work).

Then, as we worked through the ever increasing catalogue of ailing appliances, the dog stopped eating. Initially someone joked he was just helping ease the financial situation by reducing his (specialist dried stuff for sensitive doggy tums) food intake. He became so bony, we all stopped patting him in case he broke.  There followed a number of blood tests and investigations under general anaesthetic and then a vet's bill so large I wished I'd been anaesthetised before being presented with it. The result? Nothing untoward was detected. Nothing at all. Yet the refusal to eat continued despite the wafting of normally bite your hand off treats under his nose, such as cubes of vintage cheddar, scrambled eggs, marinated tofu, and sometimes all three together.   As a last-ditch attempt to tickle the taste buds, the switch was made to those pouches of gravy soaked chunks.  The result?  He scoffed every single scrap, with an air of, 'Thank goodness and about time, too', and has done at every meal since.   Even the cat licks out the dog's dinner bowl.  I've now started another Things To Be Replaced list as my car needs new tyres, the power washer hasn't recovered from my attempts at cleaning the paving slabs in the back garden and I'm wearing crooked specs (thought I'd developed a neurological problem but thankfully it was just down to all the wonk). 

London called one Saturday so off I went, in the company of my cousin.  We met up with her boy, who lives and works in the capital, for coffee and a good old chinwag and then wandered the streets of the city, eventually heading across London Bridge towards the resistance-is-futile stalls of Borough Market before finally ending the day with another delicious afternoon tea here and my first vegan macaron.

Last weekend we supported a charity fundraising open gardens event in the North Yorkshire market town up the road.  You really can't beat a good nose round someone else's plot, however small, for inspiration, ideas and cheap plants (and, in the case of the mister, regular top ups of tea and slices of homemade cake), even when you've visited some of the gardens several times over the years.   One thing's for sure, the garden here would never meet the standard for public inspection.  Well, unless the dead leaves (damned enormous, constantly shedding eucalyptus), twigs (despised white buddleias that were supposed to be blue not white and much less snappy) and trampled plants (too many big furry feet plodding around and I don't mean the mister's) theme becomes de rigueur.

Just before the oven died, I managed to nab a little time in the kitchen (someone else here is still obsessed with all things patisserie and is now making up his own recipes – lemon meringue eclairs anyone?) for a spot of gentle pottering with the piping bag.  Yes, the Boy might be Star Baker but I'm still the Buttercream Queen.

 

Miscellany

Blue and yellow bikes of all sizes, along with colour coordinated banners and strings of bunting, have been popping up across the town in readiness for Stage 3 of  this.  I have to admit I'm not a huge fan of cycling, doing it, driving round it or watching it,  but the race is passing the end of our road and, well, large numbers of fit men in lycra might have some appeal.

The cherry blossom on the tree in the front garden finally put in an appearance.

Shortly followed by a bitterly cold wind and fall of snow.  No wonder I'm dreaming of dumplings.

I visited our local university the other evening.  There have been quite a few changes to the campus since I worked there, not least this new gold building, The Curve.  In a town that has had more than its fair share of knock backs over the years, it's good to see signs of significant investment at long last.  (We're also getting a vegetarian/vegan restaurant.  Who'da thought.)

The reason for the visit was to attend an event as part of World Book Night, with crime writer Helen Cadbury talking about her novels (I haven't read them but they're now on the list) and the process of writing and getting published.  From what I could gather, there are no easy shortcuts to either.  The evening ended with the library service dishing out free books and bags to everyone, both of which were most welcome.  

The new addition to the book pile will have to wait a little while (and, of course, once I've read it I'll be passing it on) as a re-read, To Kill A Mockingbird, is currently on the go. This is an old favourite and oh, so very very good. And also the reason the dog here is called Boo (full moniker on high days and holidays only).  

I'd be the first to admit I'm no crafter (and so in awe of my favourite bloggers who sew quilts, knit socks, produce their own soaps, crochet  baskets, make dresses out of pillowcases for charity and bake gravity defying cakes).  A lot of my forays into crafts of various sorts have resulted in me being (politely) asked to leave in the interests of safety or in some sad looking item being deposited in the bin and I can't even guess the number of times my crafting ventures have left me requiring first aid.  

One of the items I brought from my late aunt's house was a little wooden stool.  She'd had it for as long as I can remember, probably going back to the days she was still living at home with my gran.  It was in a sad state, with a grey coloured mock fur glued to the seat, but a coat of white paint (yes, there are the trademark drips), some padding and a new cover has improved it a tad.  It's now waiting for the littlest to perfect the art of sitting.

The renovation involved the purchase of an upholstery stapler.  The Boy, who was roped in to help hold the fabric taut, demanded control of stapling just as I was getting into the swing, with accusations of highly dangerous practice and muttering something about fingers coming far too close to being stapled to wood.  Honestly, some people.  Sheesh.  

A knitted cardigan proved slightly less challenging, although it took four attempts to knit the button band before the penny dropped that it was the pattern at fault rather than yours truly. 

Finally, I've become a member of the Yellow Waterproof Jacket Owners club.

 So, apparently, has someone else.

Copy kipper.