Jeni Barnett

Dr. Spirtle

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The orchard is beckoning. I fear all the blossom has been scattered from the interminable wind and rain. I wanted to pick handfuls of wild garlic but the clouds glowered in extremis. So I poured some of Flannigans organic oats into a saucepan, a funny tall one with a non-stick inside. Turned the filter tap … Read more

Ochre James Bond style.

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A handful of ochre. Slice em after topping and tailing them. Yes I know it can be slimy but who cares? Heat up your little frying up, heat it till its hot, nothing in it, just a naked flame under a naked pan. Pour in some olive oil and immediately chuck in turmeric, cayenne pepper, … Read more

Mung bean magic

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Take 400 somethings of mung beans. Put em in the pressure cooker. Bring em to the steam. Turn off the pressure cooker. Let the steam die down. Open the lid. And there you have a pan full of soft green beans. Take all sorts of spices including raw garlic and ginger and roast them until … Read more

00.00

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The cottage is very quiet.
The only sound is the clock ticking behind me.
The smell of beeswax furniture polish lingers in the air, I polished the piano. Mr.Crouch, our piano tuner, came with his box of tricks , put on his apron, slurped one mouthful of milky tea and set about making my boudoir grand even grander.
The cat is caught between two cushions, comfortably slumped on the armchair.
The door is locked and the rain is still drip, drip, dripping.

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Rainbows keep falling on my head

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A warning for Jean Jones, this entry may contain material that will excite you. If you feel yourself salivating with envy just click away from the page…..
I don’t know whether to work forward or backwards, I don’t know whether to include the grizzly bits about my mother and the wretched bits about my darling girl friend who died unexpectedly, or whether I should just tell you the bits of my week that made me feel so energised I didn’t sleep. I don’t know whether to include the back pain, the watering eye, the missing of the ‘oosbind, or the tragedy thats called THE VOICE.
On reflection I shall just write the good bits so here goes:

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To Adrian

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Dear Adrian how could I forget you, I still have your little beaded gifts from The Taj Mahal in my bedroom.

Theobromine and more….

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Easter doesn’t really mean anything to me as a festival, although I do like the idea that shops must shut on Easter Sunday. And its lovely having Gods Gift and the dawter home for four days.
I went to work this morning. Although calling my three hour shift at BBC LONDON work is not quite accurate as we have such a good time.
I listen to Aled Jones on the way in and join in with as many songs as I can. I also try and remember them in order. This morning I got as far as Bette Midler and a choral thing about birds. Then I drifted off. Not a great idea since I was driving at the time. There were about thirteen toons so my memory is getting better. Little exercises that keep my brain trim.
A massive apology to Lindy and all my bloggers who listen in on a Sunday morning.
I have no control over the change of my musical bed, we all have to use the funny little musical sting that sounds like breakfast telly from 1982. Edmundo Ross was retired. I cried, you cried we all cried. I loved my ‘Moulin Rouge’, I loved what it made me feel like but the powers that be have made an executive decision so thats that.
Lets keep our fingers crossed that Edmundo will be back strutting his stuff sometime soon.
Just don’t abandon me that’s all I ask.

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Easter

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One week before Easter. No Easter Eggs. No Simnel cake No chocolate bunnies. No Passover parties. No guests BUT The old man is back from Northampton. So we’ll be quibbling, nibbling and dribbling. Thats what happens when you get as old as Sir Tom Jones, although I imagine he has staff to help with the … Read more

Keep off the Groynes

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First I boiled the hot water, poured it into a thermos flask then I popped a Rooibosh teabag into my purse.
I made a salad and piled it into a plastic pot with a lid.
Then I packed a canvas bag with said produce, a fork, a blanket, a bottle of Johnsons baby oil, a book and enough loose change to pay for parking.
Took the lid of the little red car and whoosh I was off.

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What a difference a day makes.

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ON FRIDAY I WAS 62 Theclockswentforward8cupcakesweredevouredinthegarden ahugebunchoforangepeacocktulipsandwhitefresiasarrivedfromGodsGift ajugofdelicatepinktulipswereplacedundermynosebyB shealsoboughtmeanewspaperandpacketsofseeds whichAmyRyanmyexpertgardenerplantedasIsatinthedeckchairreadingtheIndependent fourcupcakesfromBwerepastelpinkAmyswerechocolate 3womenandtheirdaughtersplustheoosbindsungHappyBirthday iblewoutthecandlesinthewarmsunshine alotdifferentfromlastyearwhen23drunkenrevellerscelebratedinmyflatinLondon. AND THEN I WAS 63.