These Boots Weren’t made for Brexit

I’ve been enjoying my new foot recently.  Gradually over the nine months since surgery last summer, it has been becoming more robust.

So Nigel and I were able to chance the second People’s Vote March last Saturday, although we cheated and headed straight to the rally in Parliament Square on the basis there would be something to lean against there.

We straight away found a good stretch of empty railing, but soon realised why it was vacant – it was just behind a small bunch of Brexit demonstrators and it looked as if we were of their number.   Before our faces appeared in the Mail as Brexit supporters, we slunk off.

But, having done what we could by joining the march and the petition and writing to our MP, my feet served quite another purpose the rest of the week.

They have been getting me out of earshot of the incessant roilings of the Brexit debacle.

 I went to Greenwich with friends, climbed the hill to the observatory and revelled in clear blue views across London.  From up there, you would never guess how troubled it is.

And I visited Heartwood with Nigel where we were soothed by the song of skylarks.

It lifted our hearts.   Maybe they should pipe it into the chamber of the House of Commons.

Never Cross a Zebra

I seem to be having a Zebra Moment.

On the news there was one single item that was not about Brexit, and it was that zebras have stripes to confuse  horseflies  – apparently the flies dislike landing on stripes.

Hmmm – you’d think that the strong smell of zebra would still be an attraction to the little insects.

However, lately, I have had a lot of zebra sightings – enough to check the research.

For instance, there's the horse in zebra’s clothing which sits at a café table in Brussels train station. Unlike an ordinary horse, he seems not to be troubled by horseflies.

(Although perhaps he has a sad expression, owing to Brexit.)

At half term in a pub in Ghent, we saw not a horse, but a bull dressed as a zebra.  (Okay, so my picture shows there was ALSO a bull dressed as a tiger, but it’s a zebra theme I’m following here.)  We also ate in a great restaurant on Zebra Street.

In neither place did horseflies ruin our repast.

Our friend John has wood-turned a bowl from zebrano – not a fly to be seen.

Then, last weekend, Carenza turned up wearing a zebra-print jacket.

 

I checked behind her, but there were no horseflies in pursuit, so the research must be correct.

I admit, I doubted the findings, but my own extensive research conclusively proves they are water-tight.

And okay - I can't completely avoid Brexit.  PLEASE SIGN THE PETITION : -

https://petition.parliament.uk/petitions/241584

Cutting in

We are lucky enough to have a tiny en suite.  But for nearly four years, I have been wilfully ignoring the fact that the shower leaks.

Finally a nice plumber has fixed the problem.  And now the en suite needs redecorating.

Not only that, but we had dragged our clothing and bedding into Carenza’s old room and covered our bedroom furniture with dust sheets, meaning it made sense to go on and decorate the whole bedroom.

Decorating was something we used to do together – “Me Ceiling, you Walls.  You Roller, me Cutting In.”

My back isn’t good for ceiling any more.  As the substantially shorter partner, I’m not sure why I was doing it anyway. 

At least I could still do the cutting in.  I used to be the Queen of Cutting In, making straight lines without the need for masking tape.

But something has changed.  My wobbly brush strokes trespassed on skirting boards and plug sockets.

Is it some refraction or parallax caused by my varifocals?  Perhaps it is the lumpy brush I am using? 

It can’t possibly be, can it, simply that I have become impatient and grumpy in my old age?

Nope.  Think I shall blame the fact that we are cutting right down on alcohol for Lent.  I must have been distracted by the fact that the white spirit was actually beginning to smell delicious.

Of Friends and Fermentation

I’m sorry to tell you this way, Annabel, but your sourdough starter….didn’t make it.

I was full of enthusiasm when I first begged it off you and carried it back across London, cradling the precious jamjar of yeastiness in my arms.

I fed it frequently, made sourdough bread.  It bubbled appreciatively.

Then Christmas loomed and I got busy.  You’d told me that I could slow it down by putting it in the fridge. That’s what I did.

Then directly after Christmas the trip to my mother-in-law in Northumberland. Then a New Year’s get-together, then a wonderful and unexpected trip to Lisbon with Pascoe.  It took me a week more to remove the jar from the fridge and check – in my heart I already knew I was a murderer.

But now I have a second chance.

In a caf in Truro, Jen presented me with a ginger beer starter.  Taped to the jar was a lengthy set of instructions, blurry from where the starter had leaked.

“How lovely.  I didn’t expect this.  But. Er. I have an eight hour train journey home tomorrow….”

“Just keep loosening the top every so often to burp it.  Then it definitely won’t explode.”

On the train, I texted her:

“So far, so good.”

Her reply:

“Go froth and multiply.”