Miscellany

There have been some spectacular sunsets lately, with each one more stunning than the last.  Vivid orange, red, pink, magenta.  It used to be said that they're seen here because of all the surrounding heavy industry but much of that has long disappeared.  Whatever the reason,  I can't get enough and with every one make a grab for the camera (whilst hoping our neighbours over the road don't get the wrong idea about what I'm up to).

My mum was an October baby (Aunty M, too, though twenty years later) and on her birthday every year when I was growing up, my dad would give me a ten bob note from his till to go and buy flowers from Belt's, the local shop on the other side of the marketplace for all things floral.  Every year I'd choose those huge headed bronze chrysanthemums which forever since I've associated with my mother.  I went in search for some on what would have been her birthday the other day but had to make do with a multi cooured bunch of smaller specimens from the supermarket.

The Boy and I travelled up the A19 to Gateshead to spend a couple of hours in the company of Nigella at The Sage.  It was a nightmare of a journey, with traffic jams and road closures and badly signposted diversions and an increasingly ratty driver (who, moi?), but we only missed about 15 minutes and an entertaining evening was had by all. 

There was a Q and A session in the second half, with unscreened questions from the audience (how risky is that?).  There were the predictable ones ('What would you choose as your final death row meal?' 'Do your children cook?') but the best was from a young woman querying the contents of Nigella's utensil drawer.  It went something like this: 'I really like those cup measures you use on the telly and I've searched for them everywhere but just can't find any in the shops or online so that's a shame and where do you buy your knives because I bought a set from The Range and when I put them in the dishwasher the handles fell off?'. 

A mooch in the charity shop (there's a very good Oxfam one near here where prices are very reasonable) resulted in book purchases (three for me and a sparkly one for the littlest) and a bar of chocolate (not 'pre-loved', I hasten to add) for the non book reading (like Kanye and Trump, apparently) mister. 

 

 

Yoga hasn't been featuring much at all recently.  Following a skin biopsy (still awaiting results) and stitches, the advice was yes, you can do yoga but no, you cannot stretch for three weeks.  A tad oxymoronic, methinks.  So I've been sitting on my mat on the floor in the spare bedroom, managing not much more than some half hearted toe wiggling.

 

My favourite yarn shop at the coast offers a programme of craft workshops throughout the year and, as I'd enjoyed two previous needle felting sessions, I signed up for a third.  The aim of this one was to produce a woolly landscape based on a picture of choice (I plumped for one of my photographs from the Antarctic adventure, with a blue, white and grey palette) as inspiration.  Five relatively pain free (just the one elastoplast on this occasion) hours flew past as we all cracked on with our pictures, stabbing tufts of wool into rectangles of old blanket, which were finally glued onto canvassses.  Mine was, oh, what's the word……..hideous.  The mister, he of few words and even fewer compliments, was struck dumb at the sight of it.  Like so many of my attempts at crafting, it ended up in the bin.  Ah, well.  Nothing ventured and all that.  And at least there was a glimpse of the sea.

 

I resisted the call of the vacuum cleaner one morning (to be fair, it doesn't take much to turn a deaf ear) to tag along on the dog walk  through the wood that's just five minutes from our front door.  The lure of the beck was just too much for a certain spaniel to resist.  Photographing berries and fallen leaves and soggy dog proved  too much for someone else to resist.

 

 

 

Later today, there's a talk at the central library in town on Amazing Teesside Women.  Maybe I'll get a mention.

 

Like Anne of Green Gables, I love Octobers, me.

 

Filling in the gaps

July chez nous was dominated by house renovations.  Our existing bathroom and shower room weren't so bad but a couple of bits needed replacing (a bit like me) so we decided to go the whole hog and blitz the lot. 

It's taken almost a month tor the work to be completed, during which time I've been confined to barracks on tea making, question answering and decision making duties.  I found myself quietly (mostly) crawling the walls with cabin fever yet again, but this time to the sounds of songs of the 80s, sung very loudly and somewhat less than pitch perfect, with a cocker spaniel providing backing vocals.

But it's finished and we now have a swish wet room and a pristinely white bathroom, which just need a few faffy bits adding here and there to complete the look.  So far, I'm managing to keep everything sparklingly clean with the help of a couple of packs of e-cloths (thanks to the couple of bloggers for introducing me to these) and forcing everyone else to use the facilties elsewhere (just kidding….maybe).  But who knows how long until I throw the e-cloth in?  All bets are off.

July is the Boy's birthday month and we celebrated at Pizza Express (his choice) and, of course, with cake.  This year's offering was a chocolate and salted caramel popcorn creation which involved a first, and possibly last, attempt at Swiss meringue buttercream (life's too short for all that whisking).  It wasn't perfect (the chocolate sponge was moist but strangely crumbly), I couldn't taste it (made with several blocks of butter, this was the opposite of vegan) but it was well received, the candles were blown out as a wish was made and every last crumb disappeared.

Books have been featuring as usual, despite all the upheaval of bathroom works.  Highlights were  I Remember You, a spooky tale, from Iceland's queen of crime fiction, about three friends who set out to spend a week renovating a dilapidated property in a remote abandoned village.  Meanwhile, the police are drawn into revisiting the cases of a couple of missing children.  I found Norah Webster , which has been sitting on the book pile for quite a while, more enjoyable than the earlier Brooklyn.  Norah, a mother of four, is newly widowed and this is the story of her adjustment to life without her husband in a small Irish town in the late 1960s.  The Night Visitor is a claustrophobic tale.  Two women, one a writer and respected historian, the other an older, socially awkward housekeeper, and a big. fat. lie.

A  hefty book at over 700 pages, A Little Life has been described by many reviewers as a moving, tear inducing, all consuming read and it's a book I've been avoiding.  The time is now right.  I'm going in.

Boo is still not fully recovered from his recent major surgery and appears to have, erm, sprung a leak (not bladder related, if you were wondering).  The vet is puzzled and consulting with a colleague, whilst in the meantime Boo, to his embarrassment, is wearing nappies.

The littlest and his mama paid us a visit one weekend so, armed with a picnic and Monkey, off we went to the RSPB reserve at Saltholme.  I absolutely love this place, with its wide open spaces, wetlands, industrial backdrop and reminders of the town's heritage.  

 

I've fallen out with all things culinary and proper meals have been few and far between here lately.  Following the latest trip to the supermarket, dinner has turned decidedly pastel.  And very sweet.  Classy, no?

As for the continuing heatwave, I'm saying nowt.

Lately in verbs

Celebrating the mister's birthday with pizzas and chocolate and peanut butter cupcakes.

Looking up at stunning skies and a super moon.

Visiting an open garden to check out the impressive collection of snowdrops and be mithered by a professional singer (retired) cum volunteer hospital driver (I know because she told me a hundred times and no, I wasn't counting but it truly felt like a hundred).

Participating in a sock making workshop at the coast.  Using tiny needles with points at both ends.  Four at the same time.  Just two words.  Never. Again.

Baking crumbles with the pinkest of Yorkshire rhubarb and syrupy stem ginger.

Watching Margaret Atwood's Alias Grace (I loved the novel) on Netflix.  Highly recommended.

Reading.  Always reading.  I've enjoyed every book so far this year, though some more than others. Highlights have included Little Deaths by Emma Flint, based on a real life crime committed in 1960s New York and about the dangers of making assumptions when presented with difference, Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng, about parents, babies, adoption, rights, and Alex by Pierre Lemaitre, a twisty turny crime thriller which is very much a tale of the unexpected.

Catering for hungry visitors of the feathered variety.

Poking around the 12th century with that feeling of being watched.

Gazing out on a decent fall of snow and stamping welly prints in it on night time walks with the Boo.

Packing for a city break.

Crossing everything that we actually make it to the airport.

 

Positively autumnal

It's that time of year when the light changes, the temperature drops (the colder the better for me), the days shorten (or, as my dad used to say, it gets late early), the colours glow, and Mother Nature begins the process of hunkering down.        

Cooler weather cooking and baking is so much easier and so much more satisfying.  Comfort food. Platefuls of good old stodge. Yorkshire puds, mashed potatoes, hearty bean stews, dumplings, creamy dhals, fruity sponges, custard.  Just typing the words makes me feel a whole lot better.

Suddenly, in my year round uniform of black jeans, long sleeved shirts, military boots, I'm wearing season appropriate clothes. And then there's the multitude of polo neck sweaters (my absolute favourites), jackets, coats, hats and scarves waiting patiently in the wings.  

Growing up in a slum clearance area (I didn't know it at the time, it was just home), gardens, trees and wildlife didn't form a daily backdrop to the changing seasons (there was that memorable year when an owl took up residence on the street light outside the butcher's shop). The nature table in a corner of the classroom in junior school, carefully maintained by the always inspiring Mrs Whitehouse, was the closest many of us ever got to conkers, fir cones, feathers that hadn't come from a pigeon, nests and colourful leaves as big as hands. Now, much to the Boo's delight, we're lucky to live right on the doorstep of woodland trails, just there for the autumnal walking (and caterpillar spotting).

Pumpkins didn't feature at all in my childhood.  I didn't know they existed outside the pages of a favourite book, where one was magically turned into a glass coach.  These days, cans of pumpkin puree are readily available in the supermarkets and easily turned into a fragrantly spiced and fruited loaf. (I used mostly wholemeal flour, added sultanas and walnuts, omitted the banana and created a mix of cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice and ginger.)   

Coffee is always my hot beverage of choice.  But autumn marks the reappearance of gingerbread syrup flavoured drinks in the coffee shops and resistance, I find, is futile.  A wholefood shop in a nearby town has recently offered fresh turmeric for sale and I'm planning on enlivening the drinks menu here with mugs of turmeric and ginger latte.  

Seasonal changes appear elsewhere.  I'm a big fan of matching my reading to the time of year whenever I can and, as Halloween approaches, I'm eager to get stuck into a spooky new book (though in no particular hurry to finish the current book at bedtime, a gripping tale of the Witchfinder General and life in mid 17th century England).  

Although I light scented candles indoors throughout the year, they make so much more sense as the nights draw in, adding to the cosy feel as you close the curtains, switch on the lamps and settle down to tune into the latest episode of Bake Off or the much less sugaryTin Star.  And an added bonus, they don't highlight your lack of dusting like sunlight does.   

Oh, yes, I love autumn, me.