............yesterday, after a shopping trip for groceries, I baked away the afternoon. And it felt good.
A dozen or so lemon iced fairy cakes and vanilla butter cream fairy cakes made all the difference. Just recently I've lost my love of cooking, preferring instead to make-do with whatever easiest, handiest. Not me at all.
Apart from baking a malt loaf for Mr Hairy's pa, I hadn't baked much at all. Not like me at all.

I made a beef and vegetable suet crust pie yesterday, didn't need to follow a recipe just used good quality minced steak and a jugful of mixed vegetables. To moisten and hold it all together; a mugful of beef stock mixed with brown sauce, garlic, mushroom ketchup and plenty of salt, pepper and thyme. The pastry, made with self raising flour and beef suet was easy to handle and delightful to cut and eat. I think I prefer it to shortcrust. It's more tolerant of cooks with other things on their minds.
Talking of which..Crying has become the norm with Mother recently.

I suppose........worrying about mum and her never ending need to go out, which I'm sorry to say, really irritates and tires me, is taking its toll. My body is screaming for a holiday somewhere, anywhere. Either warm and continental or damp and English, I really wouldn't mind. But I have to stay put, here, in the bungalow, day in day out. No postcards from me.

The one thing that gets me through each day is the night time. That time between 8:30 and 9:30 when I do the 'care' run by making sure mum has swallowed her pills (have found a  handful under the bed), dropping drops into her bad eye, looking for books and socks, doing her pillows, checking her toes and leg skin and generally making sure she's fit for bed. Then I turn and walk away leaving her to her own particular hell and me to my own. But in the bedroom even though my mind is swollen to bursting with exhaustion, I'm surrounded by my lovely run of the mill stuff, odd bits of jewellry, a colony of lipsticks, a few books and a diary. Beyond price.
If the walls fell in and the ceiling spewed piss it'd still be my little sanctuary.


Today I'm making Marjoram Pork Chops with pasta shells and garlic bread. For afters, lemon curd pudding and ice cream.

Shot along to the Havens Hospice charity shop in Rochford to pick up four tea cups and four saucers I should have grabbed yesterday!
I phoned ahead asking the lady to put them aside for me and that I'd be there in a jiffy.
The jiffy took fifteen minutes...

On asking the elderly chap on the till for my wares he promptly handed to me bit by never ending bit SIXTEEN well wrapped pieces of Royal Doulton's Rose Elegans......Um.......

We exchanged few words only doing the very English thing of smiling weakly and nodding and saying thank yous and bad weather etc etc. And so after handing over £16 I hot footed it out of the sparkling door making my way back to the car where Mr Horsehound and mother waited.

Yesterday, on one of my endless trips to the secondhand shops in Rochford town, I spotted the 8 delicate pieces of fine bone china but behaving in a way so unlike me, I left them there on the shelf next to a company of horrible chunky mugs. Why I did I don't know.....maybe the price was inhibiting me from enlarging my pottery collection but at any rate I left the shop cupless.

Then last night as Mr Hairy, mum and myself watched Jagged Edge I felt as if my head would explode...I had to get them.

So this morning I made breakfastless haste (mother and Mr Horsehound in tow) to the Harrods of Charity Shops.

I was expecting eight pieces but on arrival I clocked sixteen.. Er...eyes wide, brain wondering whether I should enquire about all them cups and saucers or should I just pay and leg it.
I legged it.

Back home I drank my first cup of sweet white tea and by jolly jingo did it feel good:)
I'll not risk fracturing, breaking or chipping any of the duck egg blue crocks by hanging them from wonky cup hooks or piling them up by the ghastly white kettle (got to do something about that) instead I've given them a pine shelf of their own.
Beautiful absolutely beautiful.


But now back to the hard wonderful work of cooking.
As I type I'm soaking fruits in malt extract and black tea in readiness for the Sticky Malt Loaf I'll be baking tomorrow for Mr Hairy's pa. He, that's pa, hurt his hand and when people hurt they need sweet stuff. And I do sweet so well.

Being cooked tonight for Mr Horsehound, mum and myself are oven baked Cumberland snorkers, these will be laid in warm very crusty 5 inch Lurpakked  baguettes and then covered with lots on fried onion, ketchup and mustard... Whether I'll top mother's sausage roll with melted cheese is something I need to dwell on, what I don't need to ponder however is whether I'll slather melted cheddar on mine and Mr H's.
It could be gross.
Nothing beats Coleslaw as an accompaniment to french fries and snorkers so a good low fat mini-mountain will be lovely.

I've thought a lot about cooking lately and how little I've been doing. And it worries me. Because. If one suddenly stops doing something one loves there's a screw loose somewhere. I know, very well whats loosened my screws. But she can't help it. It's a terrible thing to be dying. Likewise it's upsetting knowing, watching and waiting.
There isn't anything any of us can do about life and its fickleness, its tendency to stop us in our normal tracks by throwing us a a grizzly problem is summat we need to deal with so deal with it we do. The victims, the true victims of our fears and problems are our little hobbies.~

Mine is baking, but recently my tins have gone cold.

But there'll be gas burned a-plenty tomorrow and Monday as a whole load of sweet fancies get baked.

:)

Books I'm reading:

Changeling by the popular historical novelist Phillipa Gregory. Heresy, love, witchcraft, religion in 15th century Italy. The hero is Luca tall, seventeen and educated, a changeling possibly, a real faerie child. The girl, Isolde is beautiful of course, doomed for a life with a man chosen by her wicked brother, but saved when she enters a nunnery. The two team up and save the world.
An Omelette and A Glass Of Wine by cookery icon Elizabeth David. Essays and recipes on food and life. A clever writer whose descriptions of her travels make me yearn a lot  for lemons, olives and fried apples.
The Snow Child by new writer, Eowyn Ivey. A book so poignant I can barely read it. Eowyn takes me to the new home of a childless couple, Jack and Mabel. They live in the raw unforgiving Alaska wilderness where a child appears to them in the snow. A small delicate being. A supernatural gift to the barren Mabel.
Through the power of the written word my arms also open wide...



Food I'm cooking:

A simple chicken casserole, one I make time and time again, only this time I'm pouring in dry cider instead of red wine.I like cider, it's earthy, sincere, reminds me of ruffled blankets on grass.
A Bread Pudding. Using day old bread, mixed fruits and spices moistened with egg melted butter and milk. Dusted with freshly grated nutmeg before being baked for an hour or till firm and well browned.

I didn't have time today to do much else except stare lovingly at my new blue worktops so generously put together by my very good friend and agony uncle the very astute Mr Hairy Suit. He, who has so much going on in his shed and life miraculously finds some time to instill belief into my often weary self and to install ink blue worktops speckled with pale grey into my well worn kitchen. They and he have transformed the kitchen and my belief that all it takes to lift the spirit is a little money and an excellent friend.


Mother has been difficult today... so obnoxious were her unjustified outbursts that she made me cry.

I'm going to bed now, it's nearly half ten, (although the timing on this post might state a lot earlier I left it half composed to deal with mother)  .I'll continue, for a short time anyway, to read The Snow Child..Jack has invited the girl to join them for a simple supper...

......Yesterday mother and I went arctic.
Done up like eskimos we idiotically 'braved' the weather in order to satisfy mother's request for a shopping trip. As the ungritted pavements were too dangerous I pushed Mother in the road. You know what I mean...

We bought stuff.
We trekked back to the car and it was in the car I had a shock. Mother patted my leg saying "Well Done".
I nearly threw up.
Suddenly I loved her again.
But not for long.
We had 'words' later on...

Then later that afternoon Mr Hairy popped in and re-put up my lovely NEW pine shelves. The kitchen is coming around..... Only need some fresh curtains and it'll look smashing. So today Mr Hairy and I will dawdle along the high street in the hopes of spotting some blue gingham. Mother stays put.

:)

I took the ladder away and there was a bit more to do...

Yesterday was smashing... there was I kitted out in my OLD England shirt and mother's old size 10 slacks slapping blue paint around, most of which hit the spot.
I had help in the form of Mr Horsehound and Mr Hairy.
Both did their best.

Later on, in the evening, after the sausages, I took myself into the front room where mother held court. It was so funny. She snapping about the time I spent away from her throne and me talking to her in mock Nursie tones ( Now now Iris I do have other duties dear, now relax a bit and swallow your senna pods).

We watched as Mark Selby trailed Graeme Dot Com and as he did I felt truly worried. Because the thought of my Sunday afternoon without drooling over Selby's silver trousers was too difficult. But he won anyway albeit with a struggly tussle. That naughty stick boy Dott hanging on till he met his sticky end... Ok no more stick jokes.

Today I'm painting again this time though under the watchful eye of Mr Horsehound, who with his customary cool will finish orf the hard bits, whereas I will roast a chicken and watch the Final between the two hot shots in the snooker universe. Messrs. Selby and Robertson.

A Dream Final in the making.

.........We're painting kitchen walls today.
Mother will not supervise.
If all goes to schedule there should be some quick pork bangers and buttery mash round about teatime.
Whilst we paint I WILL find the time to pop in to the front room to check the snooker.
Mark Selby, the jester from Leicester won his match against the Welshman Mark Williams so that made me feel very tingly all over. Selby is smashing. In the facial sense. He's through to the semi final.
Others in the running to pick up the trophy and cheque are likeable Aussie Neil Robertson, the  lovable but painfully thin Scot, Graeme Dott. Also dishing out his own particular brand of ballsmanship will be  The very Reverend (too good to be true) Shaun Murphy, whose pudding chops make me wonder what snacks he gluttonizes on in the vestry.

So...........Murphy takes on Robertson at 13:00 hrs and 6 hours later Selby v. Dotty.

I'll definitely be downing the roller at seven................

........Even wearing a fur hat, full length coat and thermal unmentionables I still FROZE!

Mother froze too but was temporarily warmed up by a Greggs hot sausage roll.

She ate it whilst enjoying the warmth inside a little cafe right in the heart of Rochford town.

And as Mother, my good self and Mr Hairy Suit supped our tea I wondered about the future, my future but my thoughts were interrupted by a stain.
My mug had one.
So incensed was I that I went to the counter asking for another cup of tea only this time could I have a clean mug.
"Oh no dear, it's not dirty, it's just tea bag marks" said the shocked nice lady "I do apologise".
Feeling a complete fruitcake, I apologised too.
Must be a British thing.

Meanwhile mother waved her sausage roll around moaning about the NHS.
Hairy Suit was the epitome of calm.

Outside, as my glasses misted up, I felt rejuvenated by the leafy drink and went into the RSPCA shop wherein I bought a super 1970's style leather hand stitched shoulder bag in camel brown. I smiled lovingly as I held it to my nose. Some bags made of leather from that era have an aroma about them. The leather i fear is untreated, raw. And is therefore apt to pong a bit. This one didn't though so I handed over a few bob to Cheryl on the till and pushed mum out into the wicked winter weather. Hairy Suit was cool too as I bought book after book from the cheapo shelf outside, also bagged was a smashing Book of Knowledge for young Master Hairy. "He'll love this" His dad said. "And so will I" I thought as images of myself and the young man
leafing through hundreds of pages of colourful essential learning material floated through my mind. It's gonna be cool!

Back home to lots of scrambled eggs, snooker and talks about dream lives and bravery.

And so to now, and as Divinely Handsome Mark Selby gets crucified by Demonic looking Stuart Bingham in the Betfair Snooker championship from Alexander Palace in London I wait with frosty breath for the call from Mr Horsehound telling me he's on the train somewhere between London and the seaside.
Damn shiftwork... it kills marriage.

Aaargh my creative juice has congealed.

All I can do therefore is sing about my newly vamped kitchen tiles.
For too many years hideous brown and cream squares absorbed fat splashes and general muck now, after a good do it yourself make over using brilliant white paint, the kitchen is looking cleaner, springlike. In winter.

Further work is required. So sometime this week I'll paint cupboards and come the weekend the walls will be given a face lift by the application of a lot of duck egg blue paint.

I'm quite excited.

Something had to be done. The kitchen was looking dull. A mishmash of ideas, styles. It had lost the plot honey.
It is after all the heart of the bungalow, but this heart had problems...And so major surgery had to be performed.

Now I need to make over...ME!

Jots

...........Just given mum hot milked cornflakes, she's looking well.

Saw a robin grappling with his hanging nuts. What a sport.

As I', going barmy I've decided to detox my cooking library by simplifying it. Out will go almost all, leaving only the essential. Also plan to increase my reading of olde receipt books which cater for SMALL appetites. Gone will be the days where I use four eggs in a gateaux. In will be the day of half a dozen Farthing Buns.

......My skin looks excellent which is remarkable considering how old I am. I've taken to rubbing in  Boots Traditional Rosewater and Glycerine face stuff. I feel like a Maiden.Again.

Keeping dinner simple today as in keeping with this new simplified me style. Instead of serving up half a dozen different vegs I'll do some peas and have done with it. Pudding will be a Rice Pudding cooked underneath the medium bird.

..Darts and Snooker on tv today. Loved watching Richie George play yesterday afternoon, he got beat up though by the hairy armed northerner Scott Waites who will now get beat up by Tony ' Silverback' O'Shea in the Final staged at Frimley Green in Surrey. The crowd are fantastic, all kitted out in fancy dress and clapping and singing and relishing the Game. I LIKE IT. Reminds me of the Notting Hill Carnival, only without the police.
The boy Richie done well though seeing as he only took it up 5 short months ago,  he'll be back winning for sure and with his sexy young punching the air thing he'll pleasurize older women like me.

Bless.                                                                   23yr old Richie George.

Oblivion

I'm still.
Inside.
All organs collided.
Torrential bleeding love xpressing from my heart... the only evidence.
Of life.

Outside.
Another haven for birds.
Bought today.
My being, my confused ever-sickening old self
reaching out, up, to those free beasts.

.............As I hung out the washing I looked forward...

Two pigeons on the damp bare table pecking furiously at the last specks of seed. Must feed them asap.
The sky, a washed out bleached blue. Not a trace of anything warm. No cauliflower clouds or swooping screeching starlings just faded silent lifeless space.
My hands looked daft wrapped in yellow washing up gloves.
And as I pegged jumpers to the line cold water dripped down from my wrists skirting its way to my uncovered elbows.... I was glad though..... Always feel satisfied after completing a full sinkload.
Inside.
Mum...... warm in the front room. Monty luxurious, on the shaggy burgundy hearth rug coiled like dead fox fur around the shoulders of a grand lady.

Mr Hairy Suit brows very furrowed figuring out glitches on his laptop.

All is still. Like a painting.

It was so cold as mum and me went from shop to shop that I'd have given anything to be anywhere else other than Spa Road on a January morning.
We, as usual, bought a few items of interest, my two fancies being a pink button through cardigan and a book, 'Lovely Bones'. Mum stuck with her favourites,crime novels and handbags.

As we looked we listened to the non-stop chatter of three old women. They spoke of animal cruelty, death and someone who recently lost someone.
They made me feel sick. Was it my imagination or were they getting off on suffering, I could almost see saliva running from the corners of their thin pale lips.
"I don't want to grow old like them" " I don't want to spend my days gossiping." " I don't want to brag about my second holiday or how well my petunias are doing" I thought............. as a rapidly thinning mother struggled to read the back covers, I want to live a simple lentil occasional chicken style life, with my hair short, looking forward to a day at the seaside or walk in a meadow or afternoon with a man. I don't want a caravan breakaway or two weeks in Spain. The women terrified me.
When I'm old and the doctor's pills aren't working I'll make my face up, have a cup of tea and go to sleep rattling with over the counter tablets.

We then went to Joan's shop where more witches huddled on settees by the doorway..... knitting. It was a devil of a job getting in. "Are we in your way?" One asked knowing damn well they were.
"We can manage" I said and we did. Whether or not it was just my bad mood I don't know but this morning I hated every old face and every cackling voice.
I felt suffocated.

Home to soup for mum and bread and cheese for me.
The postman didn't bring anything good either.

I feel I'm going to need all my good qualities to survive this winter. The good qualities being...Resilience, patience and er...humour. Not much in this post I admit but it''s there under my lovely skin...:)

Mum was disappointed.
Sad almost.
Shocked definitely.
Her flat was cold, dark, feeling not at all like home, not at all like two loving people had lived there for over 25 years, she was stunned.

And after making tea mum and me went through every drawer and cupboard heaving out handbags, books and mementoes. It was creepy.

Opening her wardrobe and seeing dad's white shirts and black jacket hanging in the back and her floral blouses and checked trousers right at the front made me wish I wasn't there. But this job had to be done. For some reason.

God it was cold, and mum complained continually about it. "The heat is on" I said but we could have burned dad's entire collection of horse racing books and still the place would have been as cold as Tory politician's heart. But we carried on.

Dragging out photos, purses, keys and dad's wedding ring. Mum was happily sad about finding it and within minutes I'd strung it around her neck.
I didn't like it though. Because, for the first time since he died I felt he'd really really gorn. No more was i going to look into his hazel eyes (so much like mine) no more would I hear his lovely voice. I missed him there and then and wondered when mum would finally let go of all these material things and accept that the life she had with the great man has run its course. Fin. Ended. Disappeared, bubble like.

It was all too depressing and with that depression came the inevitable silence, all of us, mum john and myself, each wondering who'll be the first to say "Lets' Go".

Endless mugs of tea were a poor substitute for the warmth of a loving beating male heart and I saw that much more of this nonsense and mum would deteriorate right in front of my eyes so I suggested we pack as many carrier bags with stuff and leave. I was nastily comparing the once welcoming home with its John Lewis armchairs and old raggedy carpets and brass ornaments with some kind of dreadful home of the dead and I wanted OUT.

Mum agreed immediately and within a few short minutes we were in the car coming back home.

We came back, rested, ate and resumed life and she's been ok ever since.

I'm waiting though for her decision. The decision as to whether she'll go 'home' or stay here.
The nightmare lives on.


I made a nice chicken korma tonight and my hair looks great and I have ambitions for my future...

Today In A Thimble...

Not a lot other than...

Mr Horsehound and Mr Hairy carted orf our 28 year old settee and one armchair to the recycling place. It was though Crushed on arrival. Felt sad on hearance of this because the old grey thing had served us well. AND back all those years ago, I was daft enough to name the pieces...Dumbo, Mumbo and Jumbo.
Having not matured one Jot I couldn't let go of the entire suite so kept Mumbo who now takes up too much place in the kitchen of love.

Baked a lof a tad too long. It'll taste great but could be used as either a Doorstop or Weapon.

Mother and myself had words again. Not insulting or capable of permanent emotional damage but nevertheless bloods were raised.

We made up by me making her laugh. I did that by bowing.

Mother, I along with Mr Hairy (who is now in the process of paying rent in the form of dark chocolate) sat excited as we watched the Darts on the telly. But. When it came to later on Mother tutted because she wanted to watch Man U beat up the Hammers. I don't often deny Mum anything but this time I stood my ground by telling her that I was watching the Darts to it's bitter end.(Bobby George's son Richie knocking out a bloke called Prins. It was then that I changed channels allowing her to gawp sideways at the footie. She's happy now/ Her hair though is still wet after it's quick wash and her eyes are damp from dropping tears. She's been looking at old photos.
But the Crusty Bean is doing ok, had some pie and mash a little while ago and is excited about going to her flat tomorrow. Mr Horsehound and I aren't excited at all. The journey is long and the outcome umknown. Whether being in her own front room with Dad 'everywhere' will feed her soul or do her wafer thin body any good is anyone's guess. But we'll go and arrive lunchtime with ham sandwiches, fruit cake and a bottle of milk.

Now I must fly. And if I could fly I'd whip my way around the rooftops dropping birdseed from the deep pockets of my red anorak.

Today's Business In A Nutshell

 Power walk around Sainsbury's with the ever so dawdling Hairy Suit. "All I ask is that you keep up with me" I cheeked as I waited and waited and took root by the spice rack.

Groceries packed and stacked then nearly knocked over by a hurrying old trout in silver car. I kept my new years resolution by Not spouting expletives.

Home to the business of a vegetarian pizza lunch, mum looking for lost shoes and Hairy keeping the garage roof up by foul means and fair. What a guy.

Then with Hairy and the pizza out of the way mum and me set orf for Hockley. It was there, in the lay-by on Spa Road that the wheelchair absolutely would not work. So after dismantling the entire battery contraption I wheeled mum manually around three shops.
The boys will need to check this out.

Lovely items bought: Gorgeous honey and caramel coloured elasticated beaded bracelet 50p. Red wok style fry pan. £1:50. Posy of artificial red pink and beige silk flowers. 50p. Two VHS videos. The Magnificent Seven and Donnie Brasco. Total price 50p.
And for mum? Murder books by the box load Where oh where to put them :(

Home late afternoon to tea and low sugar marmalade sandwich.

For tea tonight. For mum and myself. Pork chops, sweet parsnips, jacket pots and apple sauce. No pud. Because I'll be dipping into one of the sweetie jars on the coffee table.

Then after food we'll probably watch one of them videos, the western probably, and by we I mean Mother, Hairy and myself..Mr Horsehound is doing a late.

Now I must fly. If only. T'would feel good to shoot between stars.



......

Our first yelling-at-each-other took place last night at 10pm.
She had got it wrong......again........ so this time I let rip, full throttle, we've barely spoken since.

I think I'll go back to wearing red lipstick not only because it's the only real lipstick any woman should wear but because it concentrates people's attention on my lips rather than on my weary lost-in-some-other-place- eyes.

Today I'm waiting in for the nurse so no shopping trip and for that I am truly grateful. Which reminds me of something I'm almost ashamed to tell you and that is my shameful adolescent hands-behind-my-back posture when gently telling Mother about my plans for the next few days.
It's a feeling I'm truly embarrassed about but one which told me in no uncertain terms just how fraught the whole mother/daughter thing has become. A 56year old woman wary of doing anything which might incur the wrath of mummy. How awful is THAT!

Still, we're taking her to London on Sunday and she says she's looking forward to it. We're not of course. I'd very much prefer to wash my dinner dishes while listening to Etta James. But we're hoping that as she struggles to carry her kettle to her sink she'll realize that life on her own is not an option.
And so...Back to my place, my home, where she doesn't want to be. No win for her, no win for me.

I'm making a cider chicken casserole today and as it braises I'll write a shopping list.
Simple precious pleasures.

War Games, Outstanding Friendship And A Box Of Chocs

............Sums up 2012.

The War Games bit doesn't refer to the relationship I have with Mother but with the silly recorded movie I dipped into last night after seeing orf Mr Hairy roundabout 10pm.
Mr Hairy. What a lovely younger man he is, filled to the brim with kindness, spanners and off the wall ideas about residing on barges, baking and general life in general. Charmingly bonkers but just what an over worked girl needs. If I were single I'd run away to a remote meadow with him. Probably Norfolk. By the way he left a box of Black Magic under me pillow.

Ho hum. New Year's Eve. Mr Horsehound, unlike my good self, was out partying last night, whilst I did the over looking of one hell of a distraught Mother. The woman is in tatters. A mind so confused with all the jabber jabber coming from Doctors that she felt compelled to tell her GP... so late yesterday afternoon when a simple consultation regarding her blindness in one eye and fungal toe nail turned into a bitter battle over her reduced Doxepin. I wanted to throttle the Spanish GP not because he's Spanish, but because he had a serious attitude malfunction and that was something both Mum and myself could have well done without.
And so.........After stepping in when Mother failed to answer his questions succinctly we finally came to a resolution. She needs to see an Optician and take antibiotics for her toe. Well well well....And the Good doc will increase her happy pills. And a hooray for that. Mother has been in a bit down lately. "Wanting" she said "to jump in front of a bus"
Lifting her into the car in the dark wet and windy car park I'd just about had enough.

While on the subject of having enough...I made more than enough Home Made Beef Korma last night, also had heaps of home made Chappatis, Raita and shop bought bhajis.
Sometimes when I eat I feel like licking the plate. This inhuman uncivilised desire comes from being human and a need to get messy, unladylike. So much of my time is spent sober in tights and sensible shoes that oft times I want to rebel. But The Horsehound Rebellion will have to wait.
At least till after the funeral.

2012 was enlightening.
So bright were the revelations that most of the time I was blinded. Being totally responsible for someones cleanliness is tiring. My heart nearly stopping on many occasion when faced with bed baths and accidents. But she did it for me when I was small and weak and as she did for me I did for her. Mother though often crying with rage because she didn't want me to wet nurse her, it wasn't my place she spat. Well m'dear if it isn't my fairylike hands that cleanse your creases then whose hands would you prefer?
No answer.

During mother's tenure we've had many door-kicking arguments, many sulks and many making up moments. We are you see, very different kettles of fish.
She is a Barracuda, I, a Goldfish.
But by careful swimming and hiding behind the ornaments this Goldfish has survived. The Barracuda however is showing her age. And her two teeth. This once graceful killer fish now lies on the bottom of her bed all washed up. Every now and then though her tail lashes out leaving all manner of foodstuffs over the carpet. She's alright though because I glide by breathing sweetly scooping up her crumbs and then when the water is calm I swim away glassy eyed.

I did everything and more last year to make mum's stay her in the bungalow a real home from home experience. Good food, expensive warmth and a host of interesting activities. But the bungalow is a poor substitute for her flat. And I, a poor substitute for dad.
I couldn't reproduce or replace the relationship she had with dad. And I've worn myself out trying to do just that. So in 2013 I'm going to be the 56 year old daughter who has to find her tongue when faced with a torrent of 'advice' from a very enraged mother.
Should be fun!

Talking of fun Mr Horsehound and me good self are taking Mum to her flat next Sunday, just for the day, just so she can sit down on her old sofa and gaze around the room hopefully feeling happier for a while but hopefully realizing that being Home Alone is not an option.


I'm making Hot Dogs for tea.

I want to wish all my readers both old and new a wonderful 2013. I hope you all feel well in head and bod!