Family Holiday - Guernsey - Day 1

In the morning, mist and “why didn’t I bring a jumper” were the order of the day.

We cycled over to St Peter Port, along narrow, high-hedged lanes bright with red campions, three cornered leek and pennywort.

In the town, Carenza and I spied beautiful shops and became unpleasant and haughty until the guys eventually shouldered the massive hint and left us alone to browse and drool.  Although, as Nigel said,

“You’ll want us again when there’s shopping to carry.”

Carenza bought a gold and green necklace and I bought a pink and orange dress.  She carried them.

We went en famille and explored the Castle (Castle Cornet) with an amazing tour from the Norm, an islander who recalled the WWII occupation and disliked anybody from Germany.  But not as much as he disliked anybody from Jersey.

After he finished, we enjoyed a scented garden with a chamomile lawn, followed by a dressing up room.  However, some of the historic costumes were too small.  It was almost as if they had been made for children.

By the time we pedalled for home, the sun had finally broken through.

That evening we set off south along the coast beside the drifts of wild gladioli, pink thrift and yellow mustard and dined at the Rocks Restaurant overlooking Cobo Bay, its picturesque rocks and romantic sunset.  The restaurant coped well with both vegetarians and vegans, although they did accidentally serve Nigel The Wrong Pie.

Best of all though was the thunderstorm that broke on our way home in the dark.  We were arrested by the spectacle out to sea and stood watching from the dunes near our house.  Sheets flashed and forks writhed across the sky, turning the whole sea into a mirror.  We oohed and aahed as if it were November 5^th.  

In the electrified blackness, plastic glowed weirdly.  Nigel scooped up in his palms what he thought was a glow worm but turned out to be a plastic sweet wrapper.  Hahaha.

Nazi graffiti, Castle Cornet

Family Holiday - Guernsey - setting off

We never know when it'll be the last holiday when we succeed in enticing all the children with us, but we managed it this year.

Got up at 5.15am, rolled out of the house into the heavily laden car.

There were the usual holiday happenings – Five of us had to fit in the car so I  had weighed up carefully my choice of clothes and laid out my outfit so I didn’t have to take any decisions while befuddled in the early morning.  I got dressed but left my jumper, intending to put it on just as I exited the house.  At the point of departure, it was nowhere to be found.  Five adults searched every room.  Clearly aliens had abducted my pullover.

Nigel had allowed loads of time for the drive and we arrived in plenty of time. But parked tightly on the ferry we had the usual scramble to prize ourselves out of the car with our bulky daysacks, plus phones, books, computers and not quite enough hands.  It was as if, even after queuing on the tarmac for half an hour, we had never guessed this moment would come.  We Hobbas are also the people in supermarket queues who look surprised when asked to pay for our goods and spend a long time looking for our wallets.

As we boarded, I said to Perran, “Really feels like we’re on holiday now.  Wouldn’t it be amazing if we saw dolphins?”

On the ferry, mist closed in and there was an announcement not to worry as the ferry foghorn sounded.  I began to hum the Titanic theme.  Hackneyed, I know but worth it for a view of the occasional truly worried rolling-eyed passenger.

But then, a miracle, on the way into St Peterport harbour.

Six to eight dolphins accompanied the ferry in, riding in the bow wave and the wake, leaping completely out of the water.

This was going to be a great holiday. 

Later, from our holiday cottage, we wandered along the sand of Cobo Bay.  West-facing, the sunsets are legendary, but not when the sea mist rolls in.

But that didn’t stop the beach art.  Nigel and Pascoe made a henge.  Perran inscribed a huge organic pattern in the sand with his feet.  I made a watercolour of Cobo Bay in the mist and Carenza took photos.

The Tummy Machine

Since January I've been going to the gym a couple of times a week. 

It was grim at first and only the prospect of watching an episode of Frasier on the gym TV took my mind off the fact I was pedalling furiously.

But lately I've been feeling proud of myself. I'm a smidgeon fitter, a soupcon trimmer. I occasionally allow myself a peek in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors nowadays.

On Tuesday I was pedalling up an imaginary hill, with only minimal wheezing, when a woman I hadn't seen before came in. Of medium height and build, there was little remarkable about her, except her manner. She paced rapidly around the gym as if looking for somebody or something. 

I was the only person there and she began to approach me between the rows of machines, but then as she drew close seemed to change her mind. Instead she retreated and went on looking around the gym. 

Eventually a lovely young woman entered, all swinging ponytail and pert lycra, and stepped up to the cross-trainer. Immediately my searching lady approached her. 

"Excuse me, love, where's the tummy machine? "

"Sorry?"

“The tummy machine - for giving you a nice flat stomach."

"Um...I don't think there is one."

"But I've got a wedding to go to on Saturday. There has to be a tummy machine!"

Eventually she took herself off to search for her miracle cure elsewhere. 

I was chuckling to myself, but then I stopped. 

A thought had occurred to me - 

What exactly was it about my appearance that made her think I wouldn't know where the flat tummy machine was?

Car Share

Our little Ford Fiesta did umpteen years of school and supermarket runs . All three children learnt to drive in it . There were still claw marks on the sides of the passenger seat where I had hung on in terror during sorties onto the dual carriageway. Scrapes on the wing showed where one of the kids found the garden wall before the steering wheel.  Dents along one side show where Perran used to rest his bike while preparing for his paper round.  Until one morning I got up very early and discovered him doing it.

The Fiesta had even once taken me and three fully grown children on a camping trip all the way to Cornwall. The boot was so full I had to remove the cherry tomatoes from their punnet and insert them individually amongst the other luggage. 

Now however Nigel commutes by train. I drive the daddy car as it is more fuel efficient. The Fiesta has faded gradually, moss growing on it, its various mechanical failures totting up.

Why did we go on taxing and MOTing it?  Because we thought one of the children might want it. However since they live in Edinburgh and London a car can be more of a liability than an asset and none of them is interested. 

Couldn't we buy a paddock and put it out to grass? I ask Nigel.
No.

I am out on the day that the scrap merchant takes it away.*

Sometimes I look at the space on the drive and sigh.  I feel somehow I let the Fiesta down. If we'd sold it on sooner it might still be alive now.
Did I just say alive?

But then good news.
Some friends from church are taking the opportunity to work in Australia for a year. Their car needs a foster home.  Nigel is mystified as I volunteer our drive enthusiastically.

When the car arrives it looks as if not merely three children but possibly the Waltons or Von Trapps had learnt to drive in it. That's great. 

I pat its bonnet each time I pass by to the carriage. It fits right in. 

*Nigel tells me it was an end of life vehicle dismantler

Our Very Own Horror Story

You know it’s a horror story when somebody is murdered brutally in the prime of life.

You know it’s a really hard-core horror story when the murderer eats the corpse afterwards.

Or were they even dead before the killer began to devour them?  We’re not sure.

And what if it happens twice in the same location?

If this was The Bridge it would take me ten hours to tell this story, but since Saga Noren turned down the case I’ll have to see what I can do in 300 words.

The first incident took place two weeks ago.  I was weeding the pot plants under the bird-feeder.  Nigel and Perran were sitting on the other side of the garden.

“Look Clare.  That little robin’s watching you.”

Then suddenly, almost next to my head, a whoosh and a squawk.  Nigel and Perran both chorused “Sh*t!”.

Out of nowhere, a sparrowhawk had swooped on the robin, thus using the bird-feeder in a manner we never intended.  Although, as Nigel pointed out afterwards, it had at least fed a bird.

The second incident occurred at the front of the house.  An entirely charming pair of pink-beige collared doves had built a nest in the cotoneaster, forcing their way in amongst the thick growth with twigs in their delicate beaks.

I enjoyed their soft cooing and I kept watch as they laid their eggs and began to sit on them.

It was Nigel who saw the black and white cat running away and found the wrecked nest.  I haven’t been able to make myself look.

And this time, no wildlife benefited.

The real horror story is that studies have shown that on average each cat kills thirty-two wild birds and mammals each year. 

So when your beloved moggy passes on, please consider not replacing it.  Wildlife is under enough pressure.

How do we lure our children home ?

Perran and Carenza moved off to rent a house with friends Zac and Ella three months ago now. 

It was the same week that we buried Nigel’s father and we could almost hear the grinding sound of the generations rolling slowly over.

The twins are less than twenty miles from us, but it’s in London. 

We are unlikely to drive there because, as we discovered on moving day, the traffic wardens are super-alert.  Like polar bears who can smell a seal from half a mile away, even when it’s beneath a meter of ice. Not that the polar bears issue seals with tickets – their paws are too big to work the machine.  But I digress.

The public transport links are good.  But why would they want to come out to St Albans?  What for?  Their part of London is full of exciting things to do and favourite friends to do them with. 

Nigel and I have discovered that if we present ourselves in London after work with tickets for a play or exhibition and a table booked for dinner, the twins show up looking smart and make entertaining company. 

But I am after a more sustainable relationship.  

I am developing ways in which to lure them home to us.  We have nice garden to sit in, whereas the twins’ nearest open ground is a prison exercise yard (that’s how come they could afford to rent in that area).  We have a warm wood-burning  stove and decent home-cooking.  Surely that will be enough….

As long as they don’t expect us to be polite to them or make intelligent conversation all will be well.

Where's the Catch?

Last week was Sustainability Week in St Albans. 

Our church ran an Upcycling and Repair Fair. 

I wanted to contribute, but what should I do?

I’ve spent a lifetime putting together charity shop outfits, but Jo was running a stall doing that.

I’ve always altered and mended clothes, but Geraldine was doing that.

In the end, I offered to repair broken junk jewellery.  “Costume jewellery,” corrected Jo.

I packed my pliers, my findings and my reels of cord and wire.

I thought I’d have time to kill, so I brought along my own project.

I needn’t have bothered.  A steady stream of women appeared clutching tiny boxes and plastic bags.

They contained chains whose catches had broken, necklaces which had snapped, spilling beads, earrings which had lost their wires.

I had stipulated “No gold or silver”, so none of these items was worth much in money terms.  Instead, people had kept them for sentimental reasons:

“This was my mother’s.”

“My grandmother gave this to me.”

“I always thought this made me look pretty.”

So repairing them was unexpectedly rewarding. 

Most women could not wait, but put on their mended jewellery straight away with a smile.

And the best was one lady whom I helped to re-string her grandmother’s green and yellow beads.  When they were complete, she put them on, and stood up.  Everything she was wearing was green and yellow to match. 

Before she had even set out that morning, she had anticipated the moment she would get her beloved necklace back and had dressed accordingly.

Now if that wasn't worthwhile, what is?

When Love Comes Full Circle

Around thirty-six years ago, Nick and Jenny met at Girton College. 

So did Nigel and I. 

On Saturday, Nick and Jenny’s lovely daughter Annwyn married Andrew whom she also met there.

The wedding took place amid the red brick and wooden panelling that is Girton, in such fine weather that the bluebells were beginning to bloom in the College grounds.

There was one person there who has been witness to all our love stories.  On the wall of the Great Hall, watching over dons and students, there hangs a portrait.  It is Emily Davies, a great feminist and suffragist and the founder of Girton, which was originally a women's college.

I’m sure that our various romances will have drawn only a wry smile from her, but hopefully Saturday’s wedding will have delighted her with its feminist improvements on the wedding traditions:

Emily Davies

The ceremony in Girton Chapel was presided over by Beth and Alison, two female clergy who are (like Nigel and I) godparents to Annwyn.

The bride and groom walked down the aisle together rather than having the patriarchal “giving away” of the bride.

The formal speeches were given even-handedly by men and women - by the groom’s father and the bride’s mother, by the best man and the chief bridesmaid and by the bride and the groom.

It was in fact Andrew in his speech who asked whether Emily Davies would have approved.  We all agreed with him that she most certainly would.

A green dress by Annabel was another innovation.

Annwyn's parents met here too.  And look pretty much exactly as they did then.

Cherry Blossom Against a Blue Sky

Teachers get a fortnight off at Easter and I was both lucky and unlucky enough to spend only a day of it at home.  

We took a family holiday in Cornwall, then I stayed on with my parents.  Then, because it fitted in with Nigel’s work commitments, Amsterdam.  Tiring but brilliant.

My question of holidays is always “What can you teach my every day life?”

Because, in the words of Franz Ferdinand, “It’s always better on holiday.”

This time what I noticed was my relationship with my camera.  On holiday, sights seem more significant.  The thought that I might never be in that place again gives everything I see a uniqueness that has to be captured.  I was constantly snapping away.

Actually, for most of my Easter break, both in Cornwall and Amsterdam, the weather was grey and often wet. 

The sun reserved its transformative glory for when we got back.

But when we got back, I was busy catching up with work. 

Then I trundled my shopping bag on wheels down to the Co-op for essentials.  I looked up and saw young green plane leaves mingling with cherry blossom against the bluest sky.  I hadn’t seen anything more beautiful than that in Amsterdam or Cornwall.  The place where I live is also unique. 

And I stopped and took a photo.

Votes for Women!

It is a perfect storm that the TimesUp and Me Too campaigns have coincided with the UK anniversary of Votes for Women. 

Those of my generation who were feminists in the late seventies/ early eighties are relieved. For a couple of decades it looked as if the battle had been abandoned long before it was ever won.

Now at last our younger sisters are expressing disgust that there is sexual harassment at work and pay inequality.  

It is time to take up the banner again.

And my friend Annabel O’ Docherty is doing just that.

In Newnham College, Cambridge, hangs a banner of azure velveteen and Indian silk, born aloft over a hundred years ago by alumnae of Newnham and Girton Colleges in several marches for votes. 

Although there were two women’s colleges, there was only one banner, and to mark the anniversary, Annabel is making a replica for Girton to keep.

She invited me to assist.

A team of three Newnham maintenance staff opened the special glass-fronted case.

We Aaahed.

Dr Lucilla Burn became the most overqualified person ever to hold a ladder, while Annabel teetered at the top and I scribbled down the measurements as she called them out.

We loved the stencils of irises for Newnham and daisies for Girton.

We appreciated the banner’s message: “Better is wisdom than weapons of war.”  Just as urgent now as then.

And we liked the idea that so many highly educated young women set down their pens to work together at stitching a banner.  Using traditionally female skills in order to produce a subversive artefact is very “now” (cf Tracey Emin and a number of others).

As Annabel sets about using her considerable expertise to produce the replica, I’m sure that all the women in the black and white photo below would be cheering her on. 

The battle for women’s rights must continue!

TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THE EXTRAORDINARY BANNER: NEWNHAM WEBSITE: 

http://www.newn.cam.ac.uk/newnham-news/happy-international-womens-day/

Family Holiday Fears

Emotionally, I am just not cut out for family holidays.  “Is it the catering?” you ask.  “Does your family bicker?”  “Is it tough spending so much time in each other’s company?”

No.  None of those.  It’s more….metaphysical.

You start the week with a sense that there are endless possibilities and that you will have limitless time.  You will play board games with your children and cook them their favourite meals. You will read the Booker Prize Winner, make watercolour sketches of the view from the window.  There are any number of historic properties and sites of natural beauty within reach.

Then, after a couple of days, one of the children returns home for a work commitment, soon to be followed by another.  By the end of Wednesday, you are more than half way through your week.  It becomes clear that you should have prioritised, should have pursued more single-mindedly the things you really wanted to do. 

Finally, there is the struggle to quell panic as the end of the break zooms up fast.

My problem is this: surely the family holiday is a metaphor for Life itself.

But as soon as I get home, I start looking forward to the next family break, whenever that will be.  And that really is the chief pleasure of a holiday – the anticipation of it.  It is there at the back of my mind, like Narnia at the back of the wardrobe - a land where time will stand still and all will be perfect once more.

An intrusion

I’m at an age now where my poor old body is beginning to turn traitor.  I wish that in the past I’d regarded it more as a beloved pet dog – fed it a lean diet, taken it for regular exercise.

Recently my number came up for bowel cancer screening.  I’d heard nothing about this program and suspected an elaborate practical joke.  But when the enema kit arrived in the post, the joke was over.

As if that wasn’t enough, the wee infection I had before Christmas (wait a minute, am I really blogging about my own urine infection? Is disinhibiton another sign of old age?)…..as I said, my urine infection before Christmas led to my GP noticing traces of blood in my urine samples.  Next stop, a cystoscopy.

Yep.  Another camera where I never expected to find one.  Getting those bits of my anatomy to smile was going to be challenging.  

And although the two procedures were to take place in different hospitals, by coincidence, they were scheduled on consecutive days this week.

No wonder my end-of-term celebrations were somewhat muted.

I told Pascoe and he offered me a “bright spot” – under the data protection act I can demand a copy of the video footage taken of my colon and bladder. 

We could show them to our guests as after-dinner entertainment.  Thus trumping the whole holiday photo/wedding video experience.

So during the procedures, I twisted to assess the monitor.  My bladder was fine, although it did look a bit like an alien’s den in Star Trek.  But I actually felt quite proud of the journey through my pink, healthy looking colon.  Except where the enema hadn’t been completely thorough, which made me feel unaccountably ashamed.  I guess it’s not every day you get to watch a live broadcast of your own poo in a small room full of strangers.

So, bottom line (bottom line – ha ha) is that I didn’t ask for the video. After this week’s goings on I have just a shred of dignity left and I intend to hang on to it.

CBT - my therapy of choice

Hawfinch

Recently, there's been a lot going on chez nous: Nigel's father died and the twins moved out.
My normal therapy would be to strike out on long walks. But the operation which was supposed to fix my foot got cancelled just before Christmas, so I can only do short strolls.

So instead I'm seeking comfort in an old interest - bird-watching.

The kids say it's okay to be a nerd nowadays - even fashionable - I do hope they're right.
Caroline took me to see fluffy tree sparrows.
Angela directed me to a great place to spot green sandpipers bobbing in the stream.
I dragged Carol, Caroline and Diane on hawfinch safari in a breezy churchyard. 

"Where are you off to?" asked Perran.

"To see hawfinches."

"What? - You going to find them sashaying up and down the fence, trying to attract male finches?"

No Perran.  Not spelt that way.

In fact, I had always wanted to see these brightly coloured finches with a bill that can crack a cherry stone.  Luckily there were some reports  - on twitter of course. 

In the icy weather Caroline and I added siskin and redpoll to the list.

I don't know how to confess this:

I think I may have become a twitcher. 

I can feel my wrist making an involuntary ticking motion each time I spot a new species.

Of course it's not cool.
But when I'm down, it's the kind of CBT I need - Cute Bird Therapy.

Binoculars at the ready

Missing you

So the twins moved out. 

Some, although very definitely not ALL of their gear has gone with them.

Just like a beach during one of those especially low tides at Easter, parts of their bedrooms were exposed that hadn’t seen the light of day in months.

It stimulated in me a primitive urge to clean.  One that I am normally able to overcome. 

But perhaps cleaning would make me feel better.

Faced with the carpet under their beds, the hoover gave an asthmatic wheeze and demanded to be emptied.

It also became obvious that many of the shampoos/skin scrubs and cleansing products which STILL jostled for position on the bathroom shelf never were going to be used again, and could now be recycled.

But just as I had my sleeves rolled up and a black bag gaping, I heard a key in the door.

Perran was home.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve got a couple of days’ holiday and we haven’t got wi-fi connected yet.”

I think our central heating may have been an added attraction.

Although obviously I have been telling everybody that it was just that he missed me so much!

However, it’s the weekend and he’s gone again now, and I’m on my way upstairs once more to attack the ‘dust bunnies’ under his bed.

Actually, I’ve just had a good look at them – make that ‘dust rhinos’.

Making it better with sparrows

At the weekend a terrible accident on the M5 made my drive to my parents in Cornwall take 8 hours.  It is lovely to see my parents, but each time there are new challenges brought on by old age.  I was tired when I got back on Monday night.

I spent Tuesday doing my half term marking.

Then Wednesday my lovely friend Angela came to say goodbye before going with her husband to live in Scotland.

Wednesday night we drove to Northumberland, ready for Nigel’s Dad’s funeral the next day.   We arrived back Thursday night. 

And did I mention? - the twins had spent the week when not at work or funerals, gathering their gear in order to leave home and move into a rented flat at the weekend.

So by Friday, I may very well have been depressed and knackered. 

Actually I was mainly stunned.

But as I say, I might have been in a bad way.

Divining this, Caroline asked me if I’d like to go looking for tree sparrows. 

I had never seen a tree sparrow before.

We set off.

The gravel workings had been expanded, which made it difficult to figure out where we were on our elderly OS map.

But we saw a muntjac, and on the gravel pits shovellers, gadwall and a mass of herons.

Then finally, in a hedge, seven beautiful fluffed-up tree sparrows.

The only thing better than the sparrows was Caroline taking me to see them.

Thank you for a good thing in a bad week, Caroline.

The Very Last Gift

My friend Carole Heselton writes:

“Perhaps the death of a parent is the last gift they give us.  It’s a chance to reflect on what we ourselves have become and to see the life of our parent led in its entirety, rather than a work in progress.”

Years ago, I heard the advice of the mystic John O’ Donohue that we must grow to know our own death and to befriend it, but I did not quite know what he meant.

Over the last ten days, my father-in-law Maurice has died slowly and comparatively peacefully after a long illness.  There has been time for his children and grandchildren to travel to his bedside and say farewell. 

There is deep sorrow for his parting, but gladness at an end to his suffering.

For a long time, as he was incapacitated by Parkinson’s disease, his successful career and his energetic charity work have seemed to lie in the unreachable past.

However, now is the time to get all these accomplishments out and admire them once more.

But at this time of stock-taking, I can see that Maurice’s greatest achievement is not his deeds in themselves, but that there are people who will want to recall them – people who loved him while he was alive and will miss him now he is gone.

In seeing this, it helps me to know more of the kind of death I would wish for myself and should work towards.

Thank you Maurice.

Leak

Since last August, there has been a plastic tub on our kitchen floor, collecting the water that came through the ceiling.

It started off as a shy dribble of droplets. 

Any attention from anybody and it would discreetly dry up.

Twice we thought roofers had mended it and paid them handsomely.

Each time, the leak waited until their vans had disappeared into the distance, ladders jangling wildly, before it reappeared.

In the last couple of months, however, it has gained confidence and has become a gushing, bubbling cascade, appearing EVERY time it rains.

We changed roofers and were impressed by the expertise and diligence of our current crew.

“It’s done,” they said, “That leak won’t trouble you any more.  If you could just BACS us, we’ll be back in the morning for the scaffolding.”

Luckily, that very night, it rained heavily.

Like a mafia boss, drunk on his own importance, our leak forgot to play hide-and-seek and poured in.

I discovered the water on the floor using my sophisticated leak detection technique – I walked into the kitchen in my stockinged feet.

When he returned, the roofer scratched his head, “Well, I suppose it could be the window that’s leaking.”

We had new windows installed a year ago.

Using a hose, he proved it was definitely the window.

So, Leak, I have you running scared now.

All we have to do is get the window people back.

Whom, needless to say, we have already paid in full.

Interesting Device

Living with grown-up offspring is not at all like living with little children.

The other day, I popped into the bathroom and came to a standstill.

There on the side of the bath was…a device.

I did not recognise it, but then, I’ve led a sheltered life.

Could I deduce what it was for?

In shape it was tall and thin with a nozzle at one end and a hand grip at the other.

On the side was the brand name – NiceFeel.

There was a button with settings – Normal, Soft, Pulse.

Gingerly, I put it back down.

How to deal with this?

I decided that I would just leave it where it was. 

The owner would soon spot it and put it away.

Twenty-four hours later, it was still on the side of the bath.

Perran was even in there washing his face as if there was nothing the matter.

I could stand the suspense no longer.

“Perran….what is that thing on the side of the bath?”

“Oh – that’s my oral irrigator – it’s for flossing your teeth but with a high-powered jet of water, instead of  tape …look!”

“Oh.  Okay.”

“I swear by them.  In fact, this is my second one – my first wore out. Here.”

He pulled another similar device from the bathroom cupboard.

“If it’s broken, why have you kept it?”

“Not sure how to recycle it.”

“Well, your Dad’s an expert on recycling waste electrical items.  Why don’t we just leave it for him on his bedside table?”

*             *             *

7pm: Nigel has arrived home and gone upstairs to change.

Startled voice from upstairs:  “For Pete’s sake, what on earth is THIS?”

Weekend Stew

When the twins fell back to earth after graduation / gap year , they landed at our house.

Office hours plus commute means they are not home much. 

Fortunately very many of their friends have ended up living and working nearby in London. 

So weekends are particularly unpredictable. I have joked about installing an enormous cat flap.

On the bright side, I have developed a new cuisine - Weekend Stew.

I got out my cavernous witch's cauldron from its semi-retirement at the back of the cupboard and I stew up beans, onions and root vegetables and frankly anything else in the fridge that appears to be on its last legs. I make it delicious with olives and capers, or garam masala, or smoked paprika, and serve with a hillock of brown rice.

Weekend stew divides up between any number of diners. It can be heated up at 3am when one returns from a party. It can be stretched to accommodate guests.

Only problem is I'm tiring of it. Yesterday I'm sure I caught the black-eyed beans staring at me reproachfully as I surreptitiously heated up a pizza. 

However in a few weeks the twins plan to be gone - off to rented bliss - and our weekends will become predictable once more.

So for the moment, Weekend Stew it is!

Storm Eleanor

I come from Cornwall where the weather’s important.

It’s important for farmers when they take in the harvest.

It’s important for fishermen so they don’t sail right into a storm.

It was a common practice for a fishing village to have a communal barometer in the harbour.

But there are also more traditional ways of telling the weather.

If the swallows are flying low, it means it will rain.

If a piece of dried seaweed becomes slimy it means high humidity.

If a fir cone opens up its scales, it means fine weather.

If the cows are lying down, it means rain.

And my personal favourite:

If you can see clear to St Austell clay tips it means it’s going to rain.   If you can’t see St Austell clay tips, it means it’s already raining.

But for the violent forces of Storm Eleanor, just passed, only one piece of weather lore would do.

And it was discovered by my Uncle John, who wasn’t even Cornish.

He said:

“You can tell if it’s very windy indeed….the seagulls will be flying backwards.”

Traditional weather forecasting at Betty's Bothy, Orkney, last summer.

Review of the year

The media have been reviewing the year just gone.
E.g. The Year in Politics.
The very thought is exhausting. 
I can review the last fortnight maybe.

Our dishwasher broke just before Christmas and we imagined a cruel God laughing at us.
Then John the Appliance Superhero arrived, gave the device some sort of Heimlich manoeuvre and out popped a pistachio shell. 
Carenza WhatsApped "Can you imagine a more middle class item to find in your dishwasher pipe? "
Dan apparently could and nominated a single Bendicks bittermint, a Kettle chip or a maths tutor.

Christmas en famille - v good
Boxing Day Walk with chums - v muddy
Lunch with new friends - v companionable

Then to Northumberland.
In spite of snow and ice Nigel managed to take his parents on two outings, including the seaside, wheelchair and all.
However we then snatched failure from the jaws of success when our parked car slid backwards down the steep icy drive and into the garage door.

And how did we spend the last moments of 2017?
With our friends, playing charades.
Which takes us right back to The Year in Politics - you can't have more of a charade than that.

Pascoe, Josh and John - reunited on Boxing Day