First there was the dresser.
Then there was the pantry.
Today I set about spicing up my life. I bought three little boxes and two mug type containers.
Stripped one cupbarod of Macadamia Oil, Sesame Oil and Vegetable Oil – the sell by dates were SO last century.
Then I emptied the spice cupboard of dead dill, overwrought baking powder and several jars of ineffectual spices that wouldn’t put any hair on any chests that I know.
Ad Infinitum
PULP Fiction.
Duddleswell Cheese is a creamy white concoction made from sheeps milk. I bought some from the Old Spot Farm shop when I went to collect another batch of gluten free chicken sausages. That’s dinner tonight. Whilst driving I listened to Johnny Vegas on ‘Desert Island Discs’. He described his choice of music as melancholic, and … Read more
Crumbs….
I’ve just driven from Seven Oaks. Dropped the daughter off, she is finally making her own way in London. The operation was on August 7th, so her recovery has been remarkable.
She is a little like me, more like the old git, but the little that is like me is the fighter.
So Dear Wolfie, when you say I can’t have my cake and eat it as well I beg to differ.
I wouldn’t have had such a daft, dramatic, interesting, wonderful life if I had listened to your wisdom. When life takes a curve ball, out of nowhere, when life drops a ton of camel cack on your head, what do you do?
What do you do Wolfie, Donna and Matt. What do you do when your life splits asunder?
What I do is wash off the pooh, wail for at least three days. (although the shock takes three weeks for the Chi to disperse I am told by my very expensive German Acupuncturist), then cash in my pension and book a holiday for me and them in Costa Rica.
Don’t na do it Donna
Never fails to amaze me how people, who don’t like me, still read my blog, or find the time to track me down. If you dont like me, or disapprove of me Donna and Paul, please refrain from writing to me. I have published all my blogs, warts and all, since I feel it is … Read more
Polishing my balls.
Tom Jones was on ‘Desert Island Discs’. this morning. The old git and I lay in bed and listened as Sir Tom played a selection of music that, although not always my taste, indicated what a brilliant geezer he was.
There’s something about a human being who is focused, has faith, believes in themselves, and inspires others to get on with their dream.
At 70 he is still living his. Of course into every life a little rain must fall. sometimes its torrential, sometimes it spits and sometimes it just drizzles like a soft day in Galway, but The Jones made me take out my umbrella and listen to the pitter patter of my life.
Farringdon Oh Farringdon…..
It’s very wet in Battersea.
So wet the lights of the cars are making the road shine like a cheap bauble.
I left the cottage at 12.30, expecting to arrive in London at 1.45, in the event it took me until 2.50 to get here.
I walked into the flat and felt very strange.
Orlas Feast.
Monday, the beginning of a new week.
I put my dressing gown on at 4.00 p.m.
Lay on my back with my legs in the armchair, threw my arms behind my head and fell asleep.
My body had taken a battering from Orla’s sweet potatoes – pureed..
Lentils – with tofu and tomatoes.
New potatoes with dill, capers and olive oil.
Hummus.
Walnut and something pate.
Chopped Liver.
Egg and onion.
Smoked salmon, bagels and cream cheese.
Mulberry tarts.
Soda bread.
Parsnip crisps.
And way too much champagne. I mean way tooooooo much.
GOOD RIDANCE
Funerals, in the movies, always have rain streaming down. Big, fat droplets falling on umbrellas as the family huddle round the grave. Yesterday I wept on my ironing, I wept on my cooking I wept on my pyjamas as the grey clouds released more rain than I’ve seen in months. The lettuces took a battering, … Read more
New Beginnings
It’s already tomorrow and I haven’t been to bed yet.
I went to North London early this morning. Victoria Tube Station was jam-packed with commuters standing, long-faced, at the ticket barriers, as the screens showed hoards of morning travellers shoving themselves into carriages. Nobody was allowed onto the platforms until there was space. Full trains wizzed through. The announcer told us to be patient…
Japan here we come I thought, it wont be long before we have volunteers pushing weary workers into carriages, all clutching their free papers, all readng the same nonsense, all arriving at their work places exhausted before the day has begun, all swigging cold coffee through the little hole in the top of their paper mugs.
I turned tail and took the circle and district line instead, changed at Westminster and walked to the Jubillee line.
Westminster Station feels like a futuristic film set. Huge pipes, steep escalators and lots of female parliamentarians with briefcases and trainers.
I arrived at my appointmet fifteen minutes late.
The Sounds of Silence
Today I am walking to Buddha – sounds like a Bruce Sprinsteen song – The Buddha who sits facing North, South, East and West on the South Side of Battersea Park. If I run it takes 12 minutes, if I walk it takes as long as it takes.
People meditate on the steps, exercise on the steps, take photographs on the steps or walk their dogs around the steps. I shall just go and muse for a moment.
I shall put on my walking shoes and take a slow mosey down past the boats, smell the river, feed the geese, marvel at the ability of life to continue on around me, as if nothing has happened, and remember to breathe. It’s a New York kinda day – now I sound like Billy Joel – blue skies, cold air and a whiff of expectation.