I hate those days when the house is in need of ...how can I put it?..some care and attention. I'm so very, very bad at housework and it makes me so crabby and irritable because it doesn't matter how much elbow grease I put into the task, it never seems to have the same pristine finish as other, more grown-up friends' efforts. Mind you, that could be because I don't have a proper grown-up house.
We live, the Boy and I, in a bungalow; the proportions of which, if one were an Estate Agent, could probably best be described as bijou. When we moved here, there were grand plans afoot to make rooms in the roof and extend out sideways and join the garage to the house to make a utility space. Those all pretty much went by the board over the years, not through having insufficient funds (for truly, we used to be pretty well off!), but more from a dawning realisation that these planned improvements would be pretty messy and long-winded and just, really, too much like hard work. One does become slightly lazy, living in one of the retirement counties of the U.K. We just spent more time outside on the veranda, looking at the garden and necking back cocktails and convincing ourselves that we liked living in a tiny cosy space. Which we still do, don't get me wrong, but the small 1920's cute bungalow is now 90 years old and seems to have developed a sort of habitational senility.
One would think, that in a house this size, the cleaning and primping would be easy - stand in the sitting room, flap a duster and the airwaves from that would miraculously clean not only the bathroom, but the kitchen and bedroom too, leaving only a little light cushion plumping and bed-making to be done - after one had had a bit of sit-down first, of course. That is not the case. In the last few months, everything seems to have become either tired, broken or covered in mysterious sooty webs. No spiders in evidence anywhere - I checked. I can only assume that, in the night, malevolent sooty web goblins scoot in and carry out revenge attacks for some heinous crime of which we, as humans, are blissfully unaware. I can't keep up with it. No sooner has the Dyson of Doom been deployed than BAM! - the following morning, the cupboards are re-joined to the wall with sooty goblin web glue. I cleaned the inside of the windows three times today, with potions of varying strength and toxicity and the damned things are still filmed over with smeary grey stuff. My arms are aching from the effort, but the windows remain as filmy as they were before I started. Surely that can't be right? Keeping this tiny bungalow clean is a bit like maintaining a very old, very large and very stately home and requires a better person that I to do it.
In the end, tired, sweaty and just a teeny bit tetchy I gave up and went and made some bread which is what I should have done in the first place, not battle against the tide of old house dirt. Wasn't it Quentin Crisp who maintained that after a while, the dust doesn't get any thicker anyway? I'm adopting that as my mantra. My friends who live in newer houses will just have to look past my less than shiny skirtings and my dusty hard floors, whilst stepping elegantly over the piles of books and papers and other 'floor-filed' detritus of day-to-day living. After all, you can ignore pretty much everything else when presented with a wedge of freshly baked bread, a cup of tea and an invitation to sit in the sun on the veranda for a bit of a chat...
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
A bit damp underfoot...
Last evening's rain made such a din as it lashed down on the glass roof of the veranda that we could barely hear ourselves think and certainly couldn't countenance dashing down the garden to lock the garage at bedtime. Luckily, the garage is so full of crap that no self-respecting burglar would even give it a second glance, so I think the risk was minimal. Added to that, we who live in the armpit of the world that constitutes outer Bugville probably engender some sort of sympathy from the criminal world, and might even find that they've left us something instead of having it all away on their toes. Quite honestly, I fully expect to come home one day to find a druggy burglar rolling on the floor, helpless with laughter at the hundred year old television and the tinny stereo that constitutes our contribution to techy living. Street resale value? About a quid, if lucky, and certainly not enough to buy anything approaching the quantity required to get even remotely high. They'd get more of a hit from several fag-free days, followed by a hefty drag on a Bensons...
Anyway. The rain. It sheeted down, but I didn't realise QUITE how heavily until I tried to cycle down to Bugville this morning. Most of my through routes were flooded, and the roads were slick with mud and running water. Along the Promenade, a phalanx of operatives in hi-vis were shovelling shingle back onto the beach and, in town itself, they'd mobilised the mini-digger brigade. The noise of a mini-digger's metal front scoop scraping along the concrete truly makes one's fillings ache. Little B told me later that there was also a phenomenally high tide last night as well as monsoon rain, which would explain the water pouring up from the manholes. It's nothing compared to the scale of the Australian floods, of course, nor could it ever be, but it brings home just how vulnerable we coastal dwellers are to the vagaries of the weather and the tides. We are below sea level here and have fairly robust and new coastal defences, but these are no match for the fury of the sea when a high tide combines with a strong weather front. I wonder how long it would take to become a competent Ark builder...
Anyway. The rain. It sheeted down, but I didn't realise QUITE how heavily until I tried to cycle down to Bugville this morning. Most of my through routes were flooded, and the roads were slick with mud and running water. Along the Promenade, a phalanx of operatives in hi-vis were shovelling shingle back onto the beach and, in town itself, they'd mobilised the mini-digger brigade. The noise of a mini-digger's metal front scoop scraping along the concrete truly makes one's fillings ache. Little B told me later that there was also a phenomenally high tide last night as well as monsoon rain, which would explain the water pouring up from the manholes. It's nothing compared to the scale of the Australian floods, of course, nor could it ever be, but it brings home just how vulnerable we coastal dwellers are to the vagaries of the weather and the tides. We are below sea level here and have fairly robust and new coastal defences, but these are no match for the fury of the sea when a high tide combines with a strong weather front. I wonder how long it would take to become a competent Ark builder...
Monday, 17 January 2011
Blue Monday...
According to scientists (who probably know these things because they have huge, intelligent brains), today is Blue Monday, the very worst day of the year for everyone. It happens every year, falling on the third Monday. It's part way through January and the festivities are over, Christmas debt has paralysed all but the solvent few, the weather is pretty much universally bad, the New Year resolutions lie in a tattered heap, VAT's gone up and life really doesn't get shittier than it is today.
I'm not sure that telling us this in print and on television doesn't just compound the issue - isn't it a self-fulfilling prophesy- type scenario, where you get told something bad will happen or is happening and it does?
However, Blue Monday is, apparently, avoidable and you can pull yourself up by your bootstraps from the very depths of despair, kicking the black dog firmly out of the way by the simple expedient of just being nice. Yes, it's really that easy. You have to practice but a mere single act of random kindness and Presto!, you feel immediately light, fluffy and full of the joys of incipient Spring, trala.
Being charitable and helping someone in need - that'll lift your mood better than anything, followed by receiving an unexpected compliment. If that's not simple enough, listening to the sound of the sea or music should do it, or eating your favourite food or hearing laughter. Oh. And sitting in the sun, not that that's likely or indeed possible in January, but the idea's nice. So, I recommend the following: help your stiff old husband up from his chair without being asked and tell him he's quite handsome for an old bloke. Take a stroll along the prom, whack the stereo up loud enough to shake next door's ornaments off the window ledge and dance like a person demented, stuff yourself full of shepherd's pie and laugh until you wee your pants at the newest bit of scientific research because, really, that's all there is in life that's worth a tuppeny damn - apart from your friends and each other...
I'm not sure that telling us this in print and on television doesn't just compound the issue - isn't it a self-fulfilling prophesy- type scenario, where you get told something bad will happen or is happening and it does?
However, Blue Monday is, apparently, avoidable and you can pull yourself up by your bootstraps from the very depths of despair, kicking the black dog firmly out of the way by the simple expedient of just being nice. Yes, it's really that easy. You have to practice but a mere single act of random kindness and Presto!, you feel immediately light, fluffy and full of the joys of incipient Spring, trala.
Being charitable and helping someone in need - that'll lift your mood better than anything, followed by receiving an unexpected compliment. If that's not simple enough, listening to the sound of the sea or music should do it, or eating your favourite food or hearing laughter. Oh. And sitting in the sun, not that that's likely or indeed possible in January, but the idea's nice. So, I recommend the following: help your stiff old husband up from his chair without being asked and tell him he's quite handsome for an old bloke. Take a stroll along the prom, whack the stereo up loud enough to shake next door's ornaments off the window ledge and dance like a person demented, stuff yourself full of shepherd's pie and laugh until you wee your pants at the newest bit of scientific research because, really, that's all there is in life that's worth a tuppeny damn - apart from your friends and each other...
Friday, 14 January 2011
A good day's work...
I know why it is, that when digging a hole in the garden, the dirt you dig out never fits back in. What I don't understand is why, when you take all the books from the bookshelf, the bookshelves immediately shrink, leaving you with less than adequate space to re-shelve. Still, the dining room now looks splendid. The tumbling jumble-sale effect? Gone. There are now only the cupboards of Doom to tackle.
This house, being of the bijou variety, has what can only be described as 'limited' storage space. There are still unpacked boxes in the garage from when we moved here in 1993. We probably don't need all the stuff that's stored in there, but clearing it is a project that's been on the very back burner every Summer since then. The Boy has the idea that, if the garage were cleared, he could use it as a workshop to re-work furniture, which he probably could. I'd be quite happy if we could just walk from one end to the other without having to mountaineer over carefully stacked piles, and if I could actually get at the things I occasionally need, like big cake tins and the jam pan.
In the meantime, my plan is to slowly clear out cupboards and drawers, shelves and boxes and, being ruthless, get rid of extraneous stuff. Except books, of course. Because you never know when you might need them...
This house, being of the bijou variety, has what can only be described as 'limited' storage space. There are still unpacked boxes in the garage from when we moved here in 1993. We probably don't need all the stuff that's stored in there, but clearing it is a project that's been on the very back burner every Summer since then. The Boy has the idea that, if the garage were cleared, he could use it as a workshop to re-work furniture, which he probably could. I'd be quite happy if we could just walk from one end to the other without having to mountaineer over carefully stacked piles, and if I could actually get at the things I occasionally need, like big cake tins and the jam pan.
In the meantime, my plan is to slowly clear out cupboards and drawers, shelves and boxes and, being ruthless, get rid of extraneous stuff. Except books, of course. Because you never know when you might need them...
Thursday, 13 January 2011
I suppose I COULD wear a hat...
There are both advantages and disadvantages to growing up under a mane of red hair. The disadvantages are well known: the nicknames, the sinister connotations (Judas has a lot to answer for!). The advantages? Well, these include: never, ever being mislaid in a crowd - especially if taller than average, always being remembered (a distinct advantage in some circumstances, a sort of disadvantage in others, particularly those involving unwanted attention in disco situations), never having to resort to expensive salon colouring operations and never having to suffer the pains of going grey.
We redheads fade over time, dear reader, not to grey, but to a beautiful white. We never have to resort to tweezering out unwanted strands, we never have to cope with the salt and pepper years. We fade, gracefully, through shades of light stawberry blonde, to golden lit with tiny strands of pure white, until we reach the nirvana that is our dotage: The white years.
This is what we are led to believe and it happens to a certain extent, except that no-one tells you that one day you reach the secret stage. The one that's never spoken about. The one that makes you double take at your reflection and shout 'Oh, MY GOD! I'm a 60 a day nicotine hag!' This is the stage where your hair is yellow. It's not a good look, having sallow hair round your face. Even with brown eyes, it's not a good look, so consider how hard it must be if you are a pale, interesting redhead with green or (god forbid!) blue eyes.
I reached that stage. Now, being a redhead, myself and the dye bottle were strangers. There was a very brief peroxide flirtation during a shorn phase when I thought having the front blonde would look cutting edge. I was young. Forgive me. Other than that, nada. I made an foray into unknown aisles and purchased a box of Light Honey Blonde. My reasoning? Tonal values. Tone down the yellow with warmer tones and Bingo!, I could coast through to the dotage stage. Bleh! It merely served to up the nicotine haggage level to 80 a day. Or possibly 90 in bright lights. I was determined that I wouldn't become a dyed redhead. We true ones are a bit sniffy about that sort of thing and anyway, there's nothing on the market that looks natural unless you can afford a Daniel Glavin salon visit every few weeks. Which I can't.
Then, in a positively epic moment, when angels and celestial choirs sang out in the aisles of Superdrug, there it was. Light golden copper. Wash-in, wash-out. I got some, I washed in, I was ecstatic. The yellow was gone and in it's place was the me of 15 years ago. Nothing too obvious, mind, just reddish-goldier than yellow and looking quite good when combined with a bit of make-up and a decent blowdry. The one disadvantage? It washed in, it washed out. I resigned myself to frequent applications and to financing a colour habit only slightly less expensive than one involving hard drugs.
Discussing this dilemma with my sister, whose natural hair colour is a mystery even to her and has been since she was old enough to spend her first proper pocket money on peroxide, she told me her secret to 'making colour last'. Bear in mind, neither of us are cash-rich, so we're quite creative in the 'making things last' department. 'Ah,' she said 'What you want to do is, stick the wash-in, wash out on dry hair, wrap it up in a plastic bag and a towel, then go about your daily business (indoors, obviously, lest you frighten the public at large) until rather longer has passed than you think adequate. Then, wash it off with proper shampoo. It'll sink in more and last better'.
I digested this gem. I carried on washing in, washing out. Today, I thought I'd try the parsimonious approach to hair colouring, being as my hair needed a wash and all. I donned the rubber gloves, squirted out the goo and applied it. Adding a Morrison's carrier bag and a warm towel and, being of a slightly more cautious nature than Sissy, set the timer for a mere 20 minutes.
Despite washing my hair three times, post-application, I could be placed as a warning beacon in any given danger spot, so bright are my locks. I am praising myself for the timing restraint, but kicking my not inconsiderable butt for stupidity of the highest order. Vanity is a terrible thing and what WAS I thinking? I may never be able to go outside again...
We redheads fade over time, dear reader, not to grey, but to a beautiful white. We never have to resort to tweezering out unwanted strands, we never have to cope with the salt and pepper years. We fade, gracefully, through shades of light stawberry blonde, to golden lit with tiny strands of pure white, until we reach the nirvana that is our dotage: The white years.
This is what we are led to believe and it happens to a certain extent, except that no-one tells you that one day you reach the secret stage. The one that's never spoken about. The one that makes you double take at your reflection and shout 'Oh, MY GOD! I'm a 60 a day nicotine hag!' This is the stage where your hair is yellow. It's not a good look, having sallow hair round your face. Even with brown eyes, it's not a good look, so consider how hard it must be if you are a pale, interesting redhead with green or (god forbid!) blue eyes.
I reached that stage. Now, being a redhead, myself and the dye bottle were strangers. There was a very brief peroxide flirtation during a shorn phase when I thought having the front blonde would look cutting edge. I was young. Forgive me. Other than that, nada. I made an foray into unknown aisles and purchased a box of Light Honey Blonde. My reasoning? Tonal values. Tone down the yellow with warmer tones and Bingo!, I could coast through to the dotage stage. Bleh! It merely served to up the nicotine haggage level to 80 a day. Or possibly 90 in bright lights. I was determined that I wouldn't become a dyed redhead. We true ones are a bit sniffy about that sort of thing and anyway, there's nothing on the market that looks natural unless you can afford a Daniel Glavin salon visit every few weeks. Which I can't.
Then, in a positively epic moment, when angels and celestial choirs sang out in the aisles of Superdrug, there it was. Light golden copper. Wash-in, wash-out. I got some, I washed in, I was ecstatic. The yellow was gone and in it's place was the me of 15 years ago. Nothing too obvious, mind, just reddish-goldier than yellow and looking quite good when combined with a bit of make-up and a decent blowdry. The one disadvantage? It washed in, it washed out. I resigned myself to frequent applications and to financing a colour habit only slightly less expensive than one involving hard drugs.
Discussing this dilemma with my sister, whose natural hair colour is a mystery even to her and has been since she was old enough to spend her first proper pocket money on peroxide, she told me her secret to 'making colour last'. Bear in mind, neither of us are cash-rich, so we're quite creative in the 'making things last' department. 'Ah,' she said 'What you want to do is, stick the wash-in, wash out on dry hair, wrap it up in a plastic bag and a towel, then go about your daily business (indoors, obviously, lest you frighten the public at large) until rather longer has passed than you think adequate. Then, wash it off with proper shampoo. It'll sink in more and last better'.
I digested this gem. I carried on washing in, washing out. Today, I thought I'd try the parsimonious approach to hair colouring, being as my hair needed a wash and all. I donned the rubber gloves, squirted out the goo and applied it. Adding a Morrison's carrier bag and a warm towel and, being of a slightly more cautious nature than Sissy, set the timer for a mere 20 minutes.
Despite washing my hair three times, post-application, I could be placed as a warning beacon in any given danger spot, so bright are my locks. I am praising myself for the timing restraint, but kicking my not inconsiderable butt for stupidity of the highest order. Vanity is a terrible thing and what WAS I thinking? I may never be able to go outside again...
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
Can it really be that long?..
A ridiculous amount of time has passed since last I posted but, to be fair, we had a crap year and there was little to write about. When having to channel one's inner Ebenezer, there's little of interest that happens and there's nothing more dreary than reading about it.
In the last few months, however, there've been little glimmers of hope and slight sparkles of possibility and this year may pan out better than last.
So. In the latter part of the year, I did a nicely paying, but temporary job after a soul-destroying period claiming JSA, I had a significant birthday, there were a couple of parties and a mini-holiday and I started this year in a far more positive frame of mind - healthy (ish) and with another job lined up in March and April. The black dog finally appears to have f++ked off back to his kennel and I've made some good new friends from chance conversations and correspondences. Life isn't bad, it's just quiet. Hopefully it will also be interesting. Here's to 2011!
In the last few months, however, there've been little glimmers of hope and slight sparkles of possibility and this year may pan out better than last.
So. In the latter part of the year, I did a nicely paying, but temporary job after a soul-destroying period claiming JSA, I had a significant birthday, there were a couple of parties and a mini-holiday and I started this year in a far more positive frame of mind - healthy (ish) and with another job lined up in March and April. The black dog finally appears to have f++ked off back to his kennel and I've made some good new friends from chance conversations and correspondences. Life isn't bad, it's just quiet. Hopefully it will also be interesting. Here's to 2011!
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Hello, yeah, it's been a while. Not much, how 'bout you?
It's been a while, but living in Bugville really doesn't engender a great deal of exciting activity to write about. Having said that, summer has been healthy and wise if not wealthy, due in no small part to the sheer volume of veggies produced from various bits of the garden by my very clever Boy. It's all looking a wee bit shabby now, though, and there's nothing much left growing except a couple of peppers, some beetroot, a few radishes and the winter carrots, leeks, greens and celeriac, so it's back to the Farm Shop until the Spring. The freezer's full of fresh tomato sauce, though, and the pureed fennel tops for turning into fennel pesto ( a splendid Summer development dish) and the store is laden with spiced fig and onion and green and red tomato chutneys and a dozen jars of mirabelle conserve, so we have some tasty things to look forward to.
In the Summer break when, if truth be told, I was just far too lazy to fire up the blog, we had quite a few visitors including the nieces to pieces, young Mr Gibbs, various Belgians and The Paperboy, I sold a couple of pictures at an exhibition at Upper Snobton, we discovered the best Farmers' Market EVER, we rode miles on our bikes, I started writing a foodie book and sketched out the outline for a novel, we laid a new floor in the bathroom, we threw an immensely impressive Golden Wedding party for the Runts and went to several slightly lower key events, I got into Farcebook and therefore time-wasting of IMMENSE proportions, we had lots of verandah time, free festival time and went to a fantastic concert by Meneer V, Kris and Jeff and their two sidekicks Jimmi Moliere and Eli in the Vismarkt. The Boy awarded himself the whole of August off - very French and very unusual.
Now that the evenings are drawing in, there's more incentive to sit hunched over the keyboard and, blessings upon blessings, we have actually got some social engagements booked in so there will be entries. I promise nothing....................
In the Summer break when, if truth be told, I was just far too lazy to fire up the blog, we had quite a few visitors including the nieces to pieces, young Mr Gibbs, various Belgians and The Paperboy, I sold a couple of pictures at an exhibition at Upper Snobton, we discovered the best Farmers' Market EVER, we rode miles on our bikes, I started writing a foodie book and sketched out the outline for a novel, we laid a new floor in the bathroom, we threw an immensely impressive Golden Wedding party for the Runts and went to several slightly lower key events, I got into Farcebook and therefore time-wasting of IMMENSE proportions, we had lots of verandah time, free festival time and went to a fantastic concert by Meneer V, Kris and Jeff and their two sidekicks Jimmi Moliere and Eli in the Vismarkt. The Boy awarded himself the whole of August off - very French and very unusual.
Now that the evenings are drawing in, there's more incentive to sit hunched over the keyboard and, blessings upon blessings, we have actually got some social engagements booked in so there will be entries. I promise nothing....................
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