December the 25th .

The saxophonist picked up the Christmas cards from the mat on Wednesday and reappeared in the bedroom . " Look " he said . I looked .

It was his new driving licence .
The slow admin at the consultants office had meant that we had forecast about March .

He took a speculative look on the net . There was his ideal car at the right price at a garage that was fairly near us . He test drove it .

Christmas eve morning we drove it away from the garage .

I had the turkey crown , sprouts etc , etc ready for Christmas day .

This morning , however , I rose early , had a shower and sat wet haired at the table sipping a steaming mug of strong tea .
The saxophonist joined me . There was a very brief and very happy discussion .

I packed corned beef sandwiches , some cheese , some tomatoes . I added Coxes apples and a fiery ginger cake I'd made . The saxophonist boiled the kettle and packed good coffee and some milk .

We stood on a sunny beach . I cried , he grinned and we knew this journey of a years flight from the bad time and the illness was over .
I held him very tight and he held me very tight .

I hope you had a happy Christmas .
We did .

A mile out along the river .

A mile out along the river willows sit along the bank .

Secateurs in coat pocket I go out with a capacious bag .

I cut long lengths but only take what I need and I thank the tree .
I always thank the tree out loud otherwise it doesn't count .

By the lock is a thorny bush plump with rosehips . Snip , snip and home as  the rain comes down .

Now , you must work the willow whilst it's still sappy . Leave it and all you've got is very big twigs .
I force the lengths into a circle , weaving in the ends as I go .Amongst the sappy circle rosehips now sit proud .

I didn't thank the rosehip bush . It has large vicious thorns and the Christmas door wreath has indeed got plenty of rosehips on it.
The pale wood now has some of my blood staining it where the thorns caught me .
That's justice and the staining would not be noticeable unless you knew .

Along the road are plastic wreaths that light up and manufactured wreaths , every one made to exacting factory standards . Some are made by people who take a stall and sell the things for jaw dropping prices and there are some that are discount shop bargains .
I think that they all count . Shut the door and you're not getting the benefit , instead you cheer the weary traveller coming up the hill . That's unselfish and I like that .

The wreath I made , though .
Ah , that speaks of an older history and a deeper furrow .
People before me , down the years , have cut willow and been pricked by rosehip thorns .
I am proud to hold hands with them this season .

It's no go for Gauguin but green light elsewhere .

Went to the National on Wednesday . We had comps for the Gauguin portraits exhibition .

Now , normally I wouldn't have bothered , having had an aversion to said Gauguin since I was obliged to study him a bit for my academic History of Art exams .I could have said "comps or not its no go " and buggered off to loose myself in the Jan Van Eyck self portrait ( as I regularly do ).

I thought , though ,  that I should employ the same principle I do to most things - take a fresh look then open your mind before you open your mouth .
I carefully separated the man , the paintings and the customs and expectations of his time .


That's a half hour I won't get back .

There was a gallery attendant ( looking like Edris Elba ) perched on a little chair .
I said " do you like these ?"
He said " sometimes I do "
 I said " and like me sometimes you don't ".
We had a quiet giggle together and I went off to buy a Dega postcard in preference to a Gauguin .


Today we went off in the rain in the bumbling country bus . The route took the usual detours to villages beginning to prepare for Advent .

A curry for lunch , three bookshops  and then round to the market square . They had had " switch on "last Sunday.

The square  had a huge tree and garlands on gables and old lampposts  .

Everything was bedecked in white and Emerald lights .

In the fading light and drizzle it spoke of the bright white light that hope delivers .

It spoke of how  ever present  and timeless greenness is in spite of all circumstances  .

We sat on a bench in the dark and drizzle .
I remembered where we were this time last year ( see post Dec 19 / 12 / 2018 ) and my heart danced in the lovely light .
"Come on " the saxophonist said " or we shall miss the bus " and I grinned at him out of all proportion to what he had just said .

Piccalilli and Topaz .

I  have always hated piccalilli . I find that your taste buds and sensibilities change over time .I had a speculative taste and loved piccalilli . Not sure what that says about me .

Anyway ,  I tried various types . Then I went to the market and bought two sets of ingredients . Veg diced small and plenty of mustard in one . Beetroot , red onion and red cabbage in the other . The latter comes out a glorious purple . I have yet to try it .


We have timed tickets for the major Hogarth exhibition at the Soanes . We have always loved sliding the wooden panels back and seeing each treat appear .
The attendant in the Hogarth room is real East End . He stood there looking cheesed off with life , heard us talking about the paintings and came over . He has read every book he can find on the period and the artist . He can tell you marvellous snippets about small details in the paintings you had never noticed before .
I wonder if the curator of this new exhibition can drop as many aitches in such an erudite fashion as our man or seem like he is a refugee from one of Hogarth's paintings . We will see .


Pushed my hair back the other day and discovered it has grown long enough to put it up again .Think of a slightly ruffled ballet dancers hair - like that .

This , then , is the excuse to get out my jewelry boxes . Over the years I have collected  silver and semi precious stones . Artisan and handmade . Think Elizabethan portrait but silver and stones and not gold .
I have dipped the plain silver things and am painstakingly doing each semi precious by hand .


I bought a new mascara in London the other day from a pop up in Carnaby Street . It's called "better than sex ". I rather doubt it somehow but each to their own .


So 
dishevelled ballerina hair , that mascara , and the freshly shone citrine , topaz , garnet and amathyst etc glimmering on my ears . That's me for Christmas .

Must think what my Christmas books will be this year too . Might do another nice fat Anthony Trollope , will fit in the Hogarth biography but have not decided on what else . Any ideas ?

Contentment .

Bumbling along in a country bus with rain streaked windows . Reading , dozing or lost in the green views .

Destination : a second hand book shop , an old fashioned restaurant that does roasts and homemade pies  .
Maybe a butcher in a striped apron with sawdust on the floorboards .
Maybe a market full of seasonal treats - celery and wet walnuts this week .

Small pleasures to anticipate , relish and savour .

The democracy of dirt .

I was sitting on the bench at my plot this afternoon . I've been doing this a lot lately , usually covered in mud or soaked and often both . I looked at the plot and realised the wilderness has gone .
There are rows of beet , beans , cabbages , sprouts and leeks . Broad beans , garlic and onion sets will follow shortly .

I have met fellow plotters. I have been given cooking apples and a pumpkin .

Yesterday a man approached, six foot , long pony tail .He looked over the plot .
 "That carpet is better than the one in my sitting room " he said .
 I explained about getting old carpets from the carpet shop and pushing them in a shopping trolley all the way to the plot . Twice .
 He listened , nodded and eyed up the straight rows and the nets here and there to keep the pigeons off . " I've got a digger " he said . "if you get the last of the rough off I'll go over it for you if you like ".

Heavy limbed and content the saxophonist and I discuss it over a pint .
When did going through the motions become an enthusiasm , a joy .

We have made friends there , because although we are a diverse bunch we all have a love of the green haven .
 A place were we can sit serene , drinking tea  in our muddy glory , where we work hard and there's a sense of achievement to take home with you .

People are decent and kind to one another on the plots . We help each other and either laugh or shrug when a crop doesn't come up or gets attacked by pigeons or slugs . It's all a learning curve or an excuse to stop and chat .

In a world so ugly and uncertain as it sometimes seems a man with a digger and some generosity is most welcome .

This afternoon I walked along the little paths to his plot and put a jar of piccalilli and two jars of chutney I'd made in his poly tunnel . He will know who they are from .

It feels good to be part of a community where nothing more is implied than meant .

Kaleidoscope

I saw some one offered a free non disposable canvas bag . I was behind him in the queue and when he was asked " what colour ?" he said " it did not matter"  .

I was shocked . How can you have no preference ?

It's the same as people who live in beige clothes and look beige themselves .
 Few people want to look like Coco the clown but to not delight in colour in some way is inexplicable to me .

 I have always been excited by colour :

• Opening a new paint box .

• Huge old fashioned apothecary bottles full of brightly coloured water in chemist shop windows .

• Old Christmas tree baubles from the fifties or earlier . 

• Old fashioned Spangles that had waxed wrappers that thrillingly included purple and white stripes , yellow and white stripes , dark emerald and white stripes ....

• Expensive balloons in beautiful colours ( not those horrid foil ones )

• bottles of ink .

• The colours of stained glass the sun throws onto plain church floors .

• Trays of embroidery thread all graded by shade . A draw in the cabinet for each colour .

• Semi precious stones that are lemon yellow , blood red , kingfisher , lime green .

• Coloured foil on Easter eggs .

• Reels of ribbon .

• Unexpected fairy light colours .

• Brush pens in lines of colour that include mint , leaf green , mustard , dark storm blue and cerise . 

I hope it is common for people to revel in such every day joy .

Beat .

We went for a drink with a cousin of mind last night . His ailments are various and the people he disapproves of are many . I think we may excuse ourselves from further joy !

Anyway woke this morning feeling despondent about life and old , very old .

So the saxophonist being the best physician there is said " lets go to London ".

So I put on a new dress and some scent and we went .

Round to the little independent publishers I love . Price had gone up but I bought six gems anyway , across to the artists colourment shop and on to eat chinese at leisure and in the cool .
On to one of my favourite shops .
 Black silky slip dress in the sale and new season soft moss hoodie to sling nonchalant over the top . ( I will wear it with this seasons girlie socks and stacks .)

Out to sit in the shade and sip water .

Along from us was a street performer . A young woman with wild brown hair and a full drum kit . She had speakers and a backing tape . Think drum and base ( a la Jumping Jack Frost .)

Interesting to watch . The men treated her like any other street performer .
The women , though , that was  different .

She was very good ( and technically good the saxophonist said ).

There were two types of women and in each group were old and young , wealthy and not so much .

One group tightened their lips , pulled their cardigans across them and walked away .

The other group ( and very diverse they were ) moved to the rhythm , smiled back at her , clapped and gave her money . In some cases a five pound note .
Stately Japanese lady in a straw hat , blond American , two ladies in saris , two little girls and their mum  with dread locks .

Summer in the city , exuberant and loud wild music that said . " I love drumming and I'm good at it , I love being a woman and I 'm good at it ".

Didn't have to decide which camp I was in just knew I did not feel old any more .

Was that a pigeon ?

The bus swoops down green lanes like a swift .

Its not that swift though as it detours to various villages on the way .
It's been a revelation this temporary bus / train travel .
The conversations you hear .
Plus I  thought the twice weekly trip out of the village to shop was over . I had sort of assumed that people were not so anchored in the village for most of the week as they always used to be . By no means is this true .

We went to see some Eric Ravilious , eat a brunch , buy a few treats in the second hand book shop . A stroll round the market and then onto the sequestered garden .

A maze , scented old roses , some Victorian hot houses and lots of hidden green corners with benches .

We sit on a bench drinking icy , very lemony lemonade .We look at our book finds . I read out a good bit and am stopped in my tracks .

Somebody lets out a loud raucous fart . The saxophonist and I raise our eyebrows at one another in surprise .
Then the saxophonist says " was that a pigeon ?

I reflect that unlikely remarks are not restricted to random bus passengers .

Contrast .

Having had enough of snails , slugs and hard slog , for a little while at least , we went to London today .
I bought two new dresses .
Black ,  since you ask and two pairs  of roman style sandals .

 Later coffee , cold water and cigarettes in the shady garden of the coffee shop beside St James , Piccadilly . There is a fountain there with two stone cherubs throwing water at one another . Sensible plan in the heat .

I'm going to pair the dresses and sandals with a slick of lipstick and a squirt of scent and sass  a bit .
How do people cope without contrasts in their lives I wonder .

Of high heels and manure .

I realise from my New York friend that allotments are not universal .

An allotment site is usually owned by the local authority . It is divided into plots . These plots are rented by the year to local individuals . They are to grow fruit and / or vegetables or keep bees or chickens on .

It is a very old fashioned system . The plots are measured in "rods" . Either 5 or 10 rod per person . A rod is a medieval measurement . It is the distance from the front of the oxen to the ploughman at the back of the plough .

In the second world war they were a valuable food source and many people took one on and became part of the " dig for victory " campaign . Various people in my family have had allotments . They are part of our history .

I imagine one or two of them were looking down today when I was at the plot . I had yet another shopping trolley full of carpet and bricks and tools .

They will be sitting in a celestial bar somewhere , helpless with laughter at the high heels and lipstick girl in dirty dungarees discussing the merits of various manures and what is the superior shit .

Sex and the shopping trolley .

A bit of lateral thinking .
I needed to smother about half a tennis court's worth of weeds at the plot .

I got a large shopping trolley from the nearest supermarket and pushed it to the local carpet shop . I assumed that they took the " old " carpet away when they fitted a new one .
They did and had to pay someone to take the old ones  .

I and the saxophonist filled the trolley with rolls of carpet and pushed it all the way to the plot .

We rolled the carpets out and anchored them with bricks . This leaves a smaller piece to plant for now .

Pushing the laden trolley down kerbs , up hills and then across the grass , especially in the full sun ,  is not for the feint hearted .

We took turns and I watched  the saxophonist force the trolley across the grass  .
I thought  "I love you in my bed but this is also an act of love and I am a lucky woman ."

Vinegar and a golden key .

It has been over a month since I applied for an allotment .
 The town clerk dealing with same is legendary for her vinegar at best and her venom at worst . She has not just moved the goal posts she has chopped them up and set light to them .

I am no good at being patient when I have an idea I want to come to fruition . I knew that a response of any warmth would give her the reason to put me off till after Christmas .

As far as she knew I had lost interest and walked off .
This did the trick .
Today at the breakfast table there was a fat envelope next to my place . When I opened it there was a sheath of papers and from these fell a small brown sealed " pay packet "envelope . I left the paperwork and gingerly opened the envelope  .

Out fell a fat gold key and yes , it did glint in the sunlight .

In the cool of the early evening we slowly walked the long green corridor between the two gates roofed with beach leaves and the squawk of starlings .
I put the key in the lock of the second huge gate . I turned it very slowly ,  savouring the moment .
The gate gave a satisfying clank .


 Serenity seems to seep out of the soil . It felt like another country . Along the little paths , here sweetcorn , there two hives and their buzzing bees , here fat pods of peas and there a coop with two clucking chickens  .

And here's the plot . Rhubarb , raspberries , strawberries and blackberry bushes . A table and chairs all wrought with bind weed .

There's so much to do . Rough grass , bind weed  and thistles too . I am half in love with it already .

Then , unbidden a man emerges from the plot next door . I tell him bout my plan to smother the weeds and he offers a tarpaulin and an old carpet from home .

Another toy figure is across the site . He approaches and turns into another ( full sized ) plot holder . We stand in the sun and chat .

I go back to my plot . The first man is going home . As he goes he calls over " don't worry , it will be fine , mine looked like that to start with  ."

In this short visit I have made two more human connections . I have walked land I can call my own .
I have stood tall in all the burgeoning green rows smiling at the saxophonist . It is sunny and I am now the proud inheritor of two wheel barrows and a shed .

I know that this is going to be a summer of bramble thorns tattooing my body  .
 I know that my legs will be like lead from the digging  .

But there are times when you just know you are in the right place - and I am .

Plot and plan .

We painted and my cousin put together a cold frame in our garden on Sunday evening .  And then we went to the pub  obviously .

Yesterday we went to London . Lunch in China Town . Portrait of a lady by Alesso Baldovinetti ( room 59 ) at the national gallery .A bit of girlie shopping . Longchamp in the sales and then flowing trousers and cropped stripped tee shirts to wear round the house .

So today was the day to site the frame . A slow ponderous rain came down in disconcerting isolated plops . We were mid way through and then it bucketed . The saxophonist knows I will see things through and we were wet anyway .

We dug out bricks from here and collected them from there . Dug out the space and I laid a brick floor .The saxophonist tipped the puddles off the frame and impressively lifted it high and in . ( The top is a heavy old Victorian glazed window ) .

It looks very professional and it will enable me to grow from seed and plant out at the allotment .

We admired it and then each other . The saxophonist had mud smears wrist to shoulder . I had thick mud splashes ankle to thigh .We looked like half hearted mud wrestlers or incompetent body artists .

I anticipate that there will be a lot more satisfying foolishness to come .

A hot bath  and now  umbrella's akimbo to the pub to discuss more senseless satisfaction I think  .

Rain and promise .

A rainy Friday and I put on my raincoat and cap and head out for a three o clock rendezvous . I arrive early and realise there are school gates nearby .

Various older men walk up and four times I am convinced that a man is the one I'm after . I smile and step  forward . Each man smiles back and goes on toward the school gates to pick up their child .
I resolve to stop smiling at random men , feeling sure that a teacher will come out and have a word with me if I do not desist .

My phone goes off . It is Alan . He has been waiting at the another gate . He tells me to stop put and that he will come to me .

Alan arrives and unlocks  tall ornate iron gates and in we go .

The place is so green and tranquil .He leads me along little green paths and there we are .

I am shocked . I expected the plot to be overgrown after eighteen months left to itself . I did not expect this . Buried and half buried things form mounds under grass and trailing weeds .
I trip over what turns out to be a raised bed . Alan trips over a handle and pulls out a scythe .

There is a strawberry bed in addition to however many raised beds . There is sturdy seating and a shed .Pull back the weeds and there are two wheel barrows , two watering cans , a potting bench and various tools .
The shed  is for the moment locked so who knows what's in there .

The previous incumbent has officially quit the site and has until a certain date to remove any of his property he still wants . After that date anything on the allotment becomes legally mine .

The tools and so forth do not motivate me though . There are ripe strawberries , a raspberry cane and a blackberry hedge .The plot has promise and the summer is coming on . We will see .

Stranger on the shore .

Went blond again last night . Went to see some Edward Bawden and some Eric Ravilious today .

I had the need to mark my territory again . It's been a while since I was in a gallery . It always washes me clean and reinforces my values about what matters in life .

I needed to get to the way I generally look too . Lately I have been staid with brown hair . Staid for me that is .With some people it looks luscious , for me it always feels like the party is in the next room .

What's my point ?
Well we are now nine weeks into being without a car . We have made great swathes of progress and moved on . Yes, I can see how far we have come .
 However , I woke up several mornings this week with the sun shining in a huge arch over the day .
 I felt like a traitor and an ungrateful traitor at that . I wanted to throw on my linen dress and strap on my sandals and run towards an ocean .

If I cannot do that then I need to say to myself that I am all that I ever was and that the beach will keep. I need to feel good about the way I look . I need the consolations , excitement and joy of great art .

This life is so different. There is so much of it that is good . I have great gratitude that we can share it and I am now on my way to not being hair trigger about the saxophonist .

This life is so different and is gradually getting worn in so that it feels like a favourite old coat and not a stiff new one .

The feeling I'm trying to pin down is this .
 It's as if I am strolling down the street and suddenly see that old lover . Forbidden fruit if you like . And , and just for a few seconds I picture myself languorous and naked in his arms .

I am faithful to the saxophonist and always have been but if I was going to have an affair it would be with a deserted stormy beach .

You can stick your ticket .

Following on from yesterdays rant / opinions aired ...... (thanks for your encouraging comments - what follows is your own fault ) :

What do you think about waiting rooms and queues ?

Yes ! I thought so .

A long wait expected or otherwise is a regular occurrence .Also of course those waiting in the queue will have amongst them people who are an oppression to the spirit .

( How I love those people who bring a paperback and a patient attitude . Those who sit silent apart from the very occasional gentle sigh betokening fellow feeling on your mutual wait . )

Can we also agree on the new mother who apparently is the only person in the world ever to have given birth , breast fed , had the absolute God given right to a 100% attention of every member of the public health profession breathing .
Likewise accompanying grandmother who is hot wired to say loudly that the baby is named for a royal and is therefore regal or named for a long dead antecedent and therefore has gravitas .
Said great grandfather may have been a farm labourer ( and good for him and all others of his ilk ) but the passage of time has allowed grandmother , she thinks , to add a rich , rural , crust to said labourer . Said labourer is now the backbone of Britain , purveyor of sustenance and good rumbustious bucolic joy to the masses . He is the sanitised superior to anything on your family tree or mine . He is "ye olde merry England ".

Ok .... rant over .

Cause ?
The last few health checks for the saxophonist and the saxophonists wife who has been coerced into well women / responsible citizen checks when caught with her guard down waiting for the saxophonist .

Remedy ?
Get through the bloody things and then use common sense and intelligence to swerve all pointless nonsense and thence exercise autonomy . Meaning practice nurses who say you should eat this or exercise that whilst being the size of a barrel . ( I am size 10 to 12 ) .Resist the urge to say " I am fully cognitive of your expertise and agenda and cordially invite you to fuck off " .

So gentle reader thank you for taking a number and sitting it out on a hard seat with the mother/baby/grandmother combo on one side and a man with nasty trousers and a twitch on the other .

Your reward is the writers solemn oath that the next post will be informed by the writer having a good meal in China town and  time in the national gallery .

Options and Fornication .

Adventures by train and country bus have begun . I like very much the freedom of it . I love the improvisation and spontaneity of such journeys . The transience and the unexpected .

Home pleasures satisfy . Reading  , drawing , making things  , walking .

However , somewhat out of character , I have contemplated joining something . To save you the bother of doing the same I'll explain .

Option one : community choir .

"friendship and fun "

Well , they could have had them under the trades description act on that one .

Men with comb overs and women gone prematurely blond caterwauling whilst wearing novelty wigs and hats . Bad enough I know but their rendition of classic soul songs ...

Its quite hard , I imagine , to sing about loss , desire and raunchy sex as if it should be banned .
 They managed it .

I gather they intend to have a " summer buffet " and a glass of wine will be " available to purchase ".
I will either have to drink two litres of rough cider and wear my knickers as an improvised fascinator or stay away .
Stay away I think and of course I advise you to do the same .

Option two : charity shop volunteer .

"community spirit and commitment "

The hearty and the sanctimonious convene ( in this case at least ) to encourage you to form an enclave where men are not needed .

Quiz's , book groups and fun for the ladies .

Now , I have never drunk a bottle of scotch straight down or road tested a selection of sex toys but I wouldn't half like to suggest it to the ladies .

Best I stay away and probably you too ?
Yes I think so .


I said to the saxophonist was I being overly critical or displaying rather telling character traits with my reaction to options one and two ?

He said , firstly , that he would not pay fifteen quid to sit through two hours of the choir giving it what for .
He said , secondly , that my comments on the "options" were a bit naughty .

I said that I thought the "naughty " was what he married me for , along with the great cooking and an enthusiastic aptitude for  explicit detail deleted .

He thought about this for a while and did a slow grin .

Advice then : if you are a person who likes joining things , fill your boots , and if you are not then I'm sure you , like me ,  you will find your own amusements .

The seductive sprout .

It had been a nostalgic conversation  and an exasperated one too .

Why do people eat ready meals ? I had half a one to try and threw the rest in the bin , hungry as I was . It bore no resemblance to proper food . It was frankly nasty .

People will tell you they have no time to cook but they do seem to have time to watch endless television every night . Life style and choice of course .
Which brings me back to nostalgia . It was my cousin I was having the conversation with . We thought fondly of all meals cooked at home and were glad we still did the same .
Then we talked about the first new potatoes , small as marbles coming off the allotment and given a crown of a knob of butter or two and a pinch of salt .

This then led into how peas and runners you harvest yourself taste completely different to any other .

He then sang a hymn of praise to tiny early broad beans and I waxed lyrical about muffling up on Christmas eve to pick small nutty tasting sprouts to roast with bacon or chestnuts .

Our grandfather and father's all had extensive allotments and my cousin still has one . I gave mine up when time got short . I told him how I missed it and that now would be a good time to begin again .

Last Sunday the cousin , the saxophonist and I sat in convivial conversation over a pint . The conversation drifted here and there and in a quiet gap the cousin said he'd spoken to the site manager and it looked like I could have a plot soon . I told him " yes " but I wanted time to mull it over ( I thought this to myself  ).

Yesterday I walked out along the river and thought of my exasperation with people who wanted good food but would not cook it .

I sat in my sequestered nook - a hidden branch of a willow way out along the river . Just me and a few nearby water birds .
Then I grinned to myself and the ducks and coots . I had known it all along , I guess , deep down . You make time for whats important to you .
I knew then I had never really left the allotments of my childhood and later my own . I remembered that I sort of knew anyway it wasn't goodbye - just time out .

There is time now for me to dig and weed and plant . There will be that good tiredness of heavy limbs from productive labour .

And then , and then  there will be baskets of radishes and beetroot , buckets of potatoes and onions , trugs of lettuces and spring onions . I will be weary , muddy and in yet another sense home again .

Surprising myself .

So a new life is beginning to unfold . A stroll to the town to buy ingredients . New books to read . Enticing creative projects . The prospect of adventures by train , coach and country bus .

The ills that beset us have been dealt with pills . More or less pills may or may not follow but that does not matter . What matters is the baking of rock buns ,violets and bluebells in the garden . The thought that the gosgog bush may yield us a crop and the black currant too . Putting on an outfit with a bit of sass .

Springtime you see ( or whatever season is there to be relished ) . A daily round of meals cooked , walks taken , books read . Looking at world class art , Radio Three and Radio Four . A good nib and some nice paper .

A life that is  civilised and largely autonomous . Little treats and happy habits every day .

Constance Gray writes in her famous cookery book " Honey from a weed " : " there was a time when the satisfaction of performing practical tasks was valued as one of the ways to give meaning to our lives ."
She says further " without work the vessel of human life lacks ballast ."

She is not talking about dull drudgery , she means putting real heart into your life . The means at the forefront of her comments is cooking . Of course though there is walking and appreciating each season as it comes . Being creative and enjoying intellectual stimulus of one sort and another are essential too I think .

Mark Boyle talking in his book the " Moneyless Manifesto " says " each of us knows there is a story more sublime , more dignified , more glorious than numbers "

He means values that do not include money .

I am beginning slowly to join the dots in our new life . It's already there in small ways . When somebody does me a good turn I bake them a cake .If I make chutney , marmalade or jam I do it in big quantities . A jar goes to each person who supplied me with jars . I enjoy it and the rest is for swaps or  a thank you of a different sort .

The car was sold yesterday and oddly there is a serenity in that . Now we know where we are ( for six months or a year at least ) . There are different ways of doing things now .

A familiar face : part two . (see previous post first )

So , the doctor said the saxophonist had done so well he did not need so many pills including the ones to prevent seizures . So ,  that was two seizures and two days in hospital . He's home and has been told he cannot drive for a time at least .

I'm calming down and learning to trust that all is well again .

Obviously that means pleasures that don't include a car .

 I thought back to when I was single and using coaches , buses , trains and walking a lot . I went all over the place and didn't trouble about a  car .
 Fewer trips and more adventures .

 I thought about time at the library to browse , time in the charity shops for hunting out the odd gem , striding out along the river and of course there is time to cook in leisured contentment .

So ,  re previous post .
How odd is that . I am not only meeting the person walking down the road towards me , we are fusing into one .
I shall be making pineapple marmalade this week and this time she knows it .

A familiar face .

Riding in the car , chat and companionable silence . I have a pad and pen on my lap and an old A5 book I am consulting .

Two crows are in conference facing each other on a branch . They nod at one another .

Further down the road two  more crows pace . They look as if their hands are behind their backs and are dressed like old fashioned school masters , but no mortar boards - I looked .

I go back to the hard backed book but ponder the crows conferring and pacing .

I began to put recipes from old books or was given in a hard backed  book when I was 18 . I am now on my 23rd volume .
The early ones have my maiden name on the cover and later ones the married one .

It was an early volume I was consulting in the car .
Oh , all the recipes , menus and ideas for meals I had forgotten !
All the asides that had nothing to do with cookery . I was making notes of things to revisit and cook again .

I confer with the books like a crow and pacing down this road I see some one walking in the opposite direction towards me . As we get closer I can make out her features .
 She is the young woman who wrote these books .

Amongst the pages she confides an occasional sadness or frustration , Mostly though I can see , clear sighted , that this slight figure with her quirky clothes and long blond hair is fearless . Her work is high powered and challenging but she balances that in the kitchen making pies , chutney , marmalade .
I know that sometimes she worries she may loose the oomph or opportunity to be creative in the kitchen .

The crows look beadily at the two of us . I smile at her  .
 Its all I can do ,  for I cannot tell her that she has some great joys to come and just a few things she is better off not knowing about before hand .
I cannot tell her " your hand writing is my hand writing and I made tangerine marmalade the other day .

Two posts for the price of one .

Healing is a strange thing isn't it ?
 I was thinking about that whilst I was reading an essay that Phillip Pullman wrote to accompany , so to speak , an exhibition at the Ashmolean concerning talismans , amulets , charms and other things with and without magical properties . ( The Oxford exhibition was called " spellbound "and ran till the 6th of January ).
He makes the point that though he is a rationalist and a humanist , he , as a fiction writer ( and sensible )likes to pay attention to things that he comes across including the uncanny and  the mysterious . He quotes physicist Niels Bohr who when asked why a horse shoe hung over his laboratory door claimed he did not believe it worked but had been told that it worked whether he believed it or not .
Pullman says that reason is the wrong tool to understand such things because " its like trying to pick up something made of wood by using a magnet ".

I said to myself that I had never happened upon a word that explained what was known by some people but never mentioned , lay beneath the surface or was hidden in plain sight .
There are many hundreds of people who dress up , call themselves foolish names and kid people or frighten them but whats actually real is as  natural as breathing .

Somewhere between the layers of pills , respirators and goverment guide lines ( and these are all useful except perhaps the last ) lies another hidden layer . Yes its common sense and its good luck too but there's something else in the mix . It isn't love ,it isn't relief . It has a distinct sound all of its own  .
Yesterday when we stood , he with his arms about me , looking out at the lights from the far harbour playing on the water I heard it again .


Since the saxophonist came home I have upped the bold flavours we enjoy ( one of the first things he said to the nurse when he regained his senses was " sorry I'm not eating that ").

So a drive to an Indian quarter in outer London .

Again we were the only white faces I saw the whole time we were there .
We went to my favourite samosa shop .Their's are the cheapest but more importantly the best I've ever tasted . They like us there  - last time it was free extra samosas and this time free samples and discounts on the little cubes of sweet meats they sell . I asked what sold best and he smiled and said try this and now try this .
The first was soft and creamy with a huge hit of butterscotch . The other was full of nuts and once you had swallowed it a warming taste of ginger suffused your mouth .

At the Indian supermarket I bought all the usuals from the huge piles laid outside : garlic , ginger , coriander , lemons and some fat , fat tangerines to make marmalade .
 Inside I bought handfuls of various chilli's , big packets of spices it's hard to find elsewhere  , set yoghurt in little sealed buckets with handles and charred flat breads .

Driving away the whole car smelt  of delights to come . You have to know what you are doing of course if you're making your own spice mixes .
Alchemy I suppose of a sort .

Why do we see no white people there ? Is it because we are open to another alchemy apart from cooking .A way of being or thinking maybe .

I think what we felt on the shore line and when we grinned at the lovely tastes in our mouths as we tried the free sweeties in the  Indian shop are growing from the same root .

If true alchemy exists and an older hidden order exists in the air then it's there for the curious , the open minded and those not afraid to love unreservedly never mind the advice of others or experiences of the past suggest we should .

As I write there is a lovely tangerine smell coming out of the pores of my hands .I've  made the tangerine marmalade .All the forms of alchemy eh ?

I shall put my tangerine scented hands to the saxophonists face as I kiss him later on ........... alchemy ........

Seduce me again ...

So the saxophonist went to see the consultant yesterday . We did not talk about it much , when he went out I pulled the covers over my head and went back to sleep .

We have been building this new ,  home based , life brick by brick and much of it is very good .The seductive landscape was consigned to the box marked  " happy memories ".

The consultant wrong footed us both . They did tests , scans and in depth questions .
They told him that the only residue from the heart attack and coma are a slight scarring of the heart which will clear in time plus a tendency to misplace the odd word or place name . They told him that he can drive again .

I swore and shook my fist at the new sewing machine , got the hang of it and then made a cover for it and a new tea cosy .
Then I got out the five linen dresses I bought last summer that needed the straps shortened ( I'm shorter than some ) . I have machined them so they swish and don't drag .

So there I will be , swishing out into the seductive landscape again .

I thought I couldn't ask for anymore than the saxophonist back by my side but it seems I got given it anyway .

My spirits soar as I remember the estuaries and seascapes we can inhabit again .

I had seen myself walking slowly , in measured fashion , into the future .

 Fuck it . I'm going to sprint down the beach and then brazenly stop and let the saxophonist catch me .

Concerning birds and buns .

The still water shivers with a ripple . Leaves that remain on the tree are like black lace or have been bitten round the edges by the cold .

Black silhouettes soar the sky . A contented lone figure strolls by the river , hands deep in pockets ,  she is planning some baking .

She grins and heads back up the hill in pursuit of the smell of freshly baked rock buns .

The zietgeist of the common potato .

ME: " I am sitting here in the middle of this potato field collecting potatoes that the farmer has missed . I rub off the worst of the mud and hold up the hem of my hessian dress to collect enough for us to eat today . The dress itself is made from a potato sack " .

YOU: " What ? " .

ME: " Its cold out here and my makeshift shoes are oozing water " .

YOU: "Now you have overcooked it " . "You were doing OK until we got to the potato sack but you totally blew it with the shoes ". "Unless makeshift shoes are part of the fashion zietgeist on the street at the moment there's not a chance in hell that ....

ME: "Alright , alright perhaps I'm not actually in a potato field at the moment ".

YOU: "What's this all about " .

ME: "Simplicity and a return to basic values " . "It's about how classic design is often simple design : a Zippo lighter , a Bic biro , a nineteen twenties Singer sewing machine " .

YOU: "Ah" . "Let me stop you there , I know what this is about " .

ME: "Oh ".

YOU: Yes , I've heard you bang on about classic design before but the sewing machine is a new one " . " Am I anywhere close ? "

ME:  " NO ! " " Well yes actually " .

YOU: "Go on then  run it past me " .

ME: " Well I wrote about how we were cooking and eating all our meals at home , that I was reading more and that I was doing more craft projects " . "It's sort of led on from there " .

YOU:  " And ? "

ME: " I 'd like to get an allotment and grow my own veg and I'd like to alter , repair and make clothes to my own design " .

YOU: " And have you done anything about this ?"

ME: " Yep , I've bought a nineteen twenties singer sewing machine " .

YOU: " Manual " ,

ME: "YES and it's beautiful . " It came yesterday , it's cast iron and painted black and gold " . " It has all the original gadgets and instruction book and a heavy wooden case like an old fashioned attache case " ." I've used one before ". " It feels like a real possession as few things that I've owned before . It has real heft . Genuine weight . It  is heavy but it is also heavy with potential and my intent . I can make things precisely to my specifications and my own style . There will be a sense of achievement and something to put on my back against the cold " .

YOU: " Oh God , we're not going back to the potato field are we ? "

ME: "No " . " It could easily be a cheeky little sundress , in fact that is probably a good simple way to start " .

YOU: " Well we await developments " .

ME: " Paper patterns , potatoes all the essence of simplicity in their way ......

YOU: "Enough ! " "Just let me know how you get on and leave out any twaddle about vegetables , OK ? "

ME: " Fair enough ".

The leaning curve of lunch .

One brought wine , one brought tulips and the "plain eater " brought a stony silence .

The stew had been browned off and set to bubble in the slow cooker last night . Left for the flavour to meld and heated again in time for the dumplings to go in . I set both slow cookers on the table , served people and left spoons and ladles around the table so people could dip in when they wanted seconds .

LESSON ONE:
Never leave a saxophonist near a ladle and a slow cooker and take your eye off the ball.

Conversation faltered and died several times despite heroic efforts from the saxophonist and me and no effort at all from the " plain eater ".

LESSON TWO: 
Do not forget yourself and tell people that you have a blog and then remember that your last post was about this very meal and was not entirely complimentary about people sitting at that very table ( I had to feign coy stage fright despite being pushed on it's title) .

LESSON THREE: 
Do not suddenly panic once they have left and belt up the stairs to the laptop to see if they can Google your name and get the blog's name too .

The pudding had to be changed after the saxophonist and I had an extra one last night and sat companionably gossiping as front loaded compensation for today .

LESSON FOUR:
Don't march towards a pudding recipe on the day and find that you will be an hour short of cooking time - especially if you suspect they will arrive early - and they did .

LISTEN ten minutes is ten minutes when you have flung together a blackberry and apple crumble whilst taking time to yell like a fish wife at a passing saxophonist who you are fairly confident will try to pretend that you are speaking in Urdu / Welsh or any other language he can insist he cannot speak .

LESSON FIVE:
For goodness sake remember that whilst the saxophonist may be easy on the eye he will not interpret
"sexy is as sexy does " by laying the table .

So people had seconds of everything and sat alcohol free , making fitful conversation for three days - well until five o clock but you get the picture .

FURTHER NOTES TO SELF:

• Don't do it again .
• Don't be surprised when the " plain eater " slinks off without even saying thank you .
• Make a note now you have done the maths to tackle the saxophonist about the information gleaned that he ingested seven fat dumplings on the sly .

Don't do dosas .

You know when you invite someone to lunch ,  full of joie de vivre and a couple of drinks and then have plenty of time to regret it ?
 Saturday since you're asking .

He only eats " plain English food " he says .

My inclination would be to carry on with current experiments with savoury pancakes with fillings gussied up with garam masala , chilli flakes and other niceness .

My default ( and what you would get if you hadn't visited before ) would be my lasagne . The ragu and the cheese sauce must be to die for and the salad en point . People generally have second helpings , more wine and undo their top buttons .

Neither the Indian or the Italian are on though are they ?
The saxophonist says give him the lasagne .
The saxophonist ? Oh thank you for asking but you don' need to anymore . He walks into town on his own . He's driven the car round the block and he's been out for a drink with me several evenings this week .

Anyway plain English food . I could use the cold weather as an excuse just to make a kick ass stew and dumplings plus spring greens .
Afters are up for grabs and are :

1. homemade treacle tart and clotted cream .

2. an old fashioned trifle .

3. little apple and blackberry pies made in muffin tins , sugar topped and served with ice cream or custard .

4. proper rice pudding with a vanilla pod split into it and some double cream plus a dollop of it on the side .

All typically English and cold weatherish .

What should I make or am I missing a trick and it should be something else entirely ?
Comments welcome as usual but if anybody feels moved to mention calorie counting or fat free substitutes they should be ready to be called joyless and be deleted straight way . Ha !

Clarity .

A euphoric five weeks . Almost as if we were snow bound . Every time there is heavy snow the papers carry pictures of people tobogganing on legitimately stolen week day time . It's felt a bit like that .
Lots of simple pleasures rediscovered and the leisure to savour them . Wandering out into the garden , reading new authors , baking bread . Civilised sensibilities . Leisured little luxuries .

The odd thing has been some people's reactions .We are independent by nature but people make a point of offering shopping or errand duties .Both we politely declined .
Others though promised outings - these were harder to turn down . We knew they could not be the same as if we were just we two but why not go for the journey and the landscape .

Why do people offer and then fail to ring up or turn up as they had said . I don't get that .

Why when you offer lunch do they mess you about and not rule themselves in or out of numbers to cook for ?

I have looked at us with a beady eye to see if we are to blame or we ask  for it in some way. No , there's nothing .

Today we did some editing / desilting / early spring cleaning at home .Amongst the papers stuffed in a pile and just left there were the saxophonists discharge details copied to us and his GP .
I looked at them with calm curiosity now the storm has blown out .

I know now why they put me in a police car to follow the ambulance saying this would be best .

I sat amongst the spring cleaning crying about what I was learning .
He was dead for twenty five minutes and they had to "shock" him four times to bring him back .I read it out to the saxophonist.
I , we are getting our heads round this new information and new clarity . For all that happened I find what I have newly read profoundly shocking .

I know though what I shall say when that "person "offers us something , anything .I shall say "oh thank you but we are OK ."

And we are , we are . I am crying as I type this  . We are OK . More OK than I can say .

The indifference of ash keys .

Some enquiries are concern and some are pure nosiness .I know which  I prefer but sometimes going over it for whatever reason really doesn't appeal .Increasingly  its a case of that was then and this is now .
So I absent myself from the interest .

Hat on , collar up out along the river . Coots call and there's a floating village of seagulls at one point .

The light is beginning to fade . Just before I turn for home I look out along the far reaches of the winding river . I see where I shall walk . Further and further as the year unfurls . It is a thought I hug to myself . It gives me pleasure .

Coming back along the tow path I stop to look up at the bunches of ash keys on the bare branches . They are pleasing shapes and they are indifferent to the unobservant and the admirer alike .They don't want an update or an excuse to bang on about their own alleged ailments .

I like the indifference of ash keys .

A practical post .

Before we were overtaken by events I used to buy groceries on the wing . Previously potatoes could easily have been driven a hundred miles before I peeled them .

It's obviously different now, at least for a while . All meals at home . Browsing recipe books . Finding food to savour and recipes that I relish cooking .
 Sometimes of course its simpler , something on toast , homemade soup or a cake fresh from the oven . Either way I am looking at who to give my loyalty and cash to .
 I like to see what I am buying and to change my mind if a seasonal treat appears so I won't shop on line . Instead I've looked at shops I can walk to with more or less ease . Tesco , Sainsbury , Aldi , Marks and Spencer and Waitrose .

Initial reaction ? Cheap isn't cheap if it turns out to be substandard and you don't eat it and it seems the two shops in the mix that are said to be more expensive often are not .

Practical advise sought then .
Where do you go , why ,  and what do you recommend from their shelves ?

In our house .

This is the bleakest time of the year . Cold , could be some snow to come .

The garden , people will say , looks bleak but I know its not .
Just under the earth the first stages of  new growth are stirring with the promise of shoots and stems to come .They move gently like a baby rustling in it's cot .

Later when it seems wet as well as bleak the earth is even more deceptive .
Plants are almost ready to push through . They stand in the hall way of their earthy home putting on their hats and coats . Cheerful with chatter and anticipation , they clamour for the door to open and spring to begin .

This I know ,  for it is faithful and true every year . It is something you can depend on . Fresh beginnings and new growth .

And in our house I hear you ask ?

In our house the Spring will just have to follow us .......  for we have already begun .