Driving back from the station after dropping orf Mr Horsehound the familiar sound of Mother's wheelchair bumping in the back woke me up.
It's going to be a good day I thought as I steered Alex the Micra along almost deserted roads.


Mum and me will amble out sometime after breakfast, probably wearing sunglasses, definitely on our way to Spa Road, Hockley.
Another Monday. More politeness with strangers. More weaving around the tanned able bodied. More bric-a-brac I expect.

Late last night I rearranged the conservatory furniture, yesterday afternoon I had tea and biscuits with Hairy Suits ma and pa. And whilst being shown around their garden of delights a beautiful piece of gammon was braising in my oven.

I've missed writing poetry.


Now I must dawdle.

Heat

This fabulous weather hasn't deterred me from cooking..

Madeleines
Lemon Cake
Rock Cakes
Lemon Curd Pudding
Mocha Cake
and the most gorgeous of all....
Raspberry Cream Swiss Roll. A regular Swiss Roll filled with whipped double cream sweetened with a little icing sugar, raspberry jam and fresh raspberries from outside my kitchen window..





Savoury too..
A Cheese Scone
Pork with homemade sage and onion relish
Bolognaise with tagliatelle
Spaghetti with sausagemeat sauce
Chicken risotto
Mince and Courgette Bake

Cooking is healing.
Cooking is showing how much I love people
Cooking is good.

Silver Linings

Clothes still on the line...Getting a second rinse
Mother asleep...Time for a slow shower
Another day...Good
 

Another Royal born...



Being cooked today

Mince and Courgette Bake
Potatoes
Peas

Apple Crumble

Chalked on my blackboard today is

Excellent pork snorkers, thickly sliced lean back bacon (from farm shop) scrambled eggs, tomatoes, hash browns and French bread.
And for pud...Lemon Curd pudding and custard.

Waiting to be baked..
A dozen English Madeleines.

I love the heat!

Mum woozy, Mr Horsehound drooping.
Me making the most of every moment.

Took mum on the Grand Tour this morning starting off with Rochford and tea and toasted teacake in the Beehive Tearoom
Then a slow drive to Hockley where I bought chintzey crockery and a good as new blackboard.
Mum stuck to spotted blouses and magazines.

Drove home like a winner, stopping for the elderly, thumbs up to white van man for letting me go first (disabled badge helps) mum in sunglasses, and me ultra cool in cotton African motif dress. Did have a major womanly moment though as we waited at the lights under the railway bridge. I didn't feel particularly ethnic so why the zebra outfit. I put it down to dryness, you know...menopause.

In one of the charity shops we visited there was a Bargain Box...everything 20p. Or UNDER. With mum's brakes fully on, (I think) I stooped over, on the pavement, to have a rummage..... An owl spoon holder, cute blue floral pot with lid and wooden triptych depicting faces of a religious bent. Happily handing over 60p to Eileen, I stuffed the goodies in my handbag, and orf we went.

Today's Menu will be chalked up on the blackboard just like they do in the Beehive Tearoom...
We'll be eating....Chick Pea Pasties, mashed potatoes, fruity chutney and peas.

Talking of gorgeous.
Last night's Meatloaf was fabulous.
I'll post the recipe tomorrow. 

Now I must fly...I have trinkets to rearrange, pasties to make and the kitchen table needs moving and tarting up.

Nearly time for my Ploughman's lunch. White bread, a few slivers of Cheddar, some squishy Brie and a warm red apple. To drink, probably milk.
Resting on the chair dreaming, eyes wandering slowly from open window to sill from sill down to blue tea plate I'll have a daydream...bright green fields, cold lemon tea, toes pointing skywards. A sudden breeze, the noise of an unknown bird scratching around on a branch. And in the long distance made eerie by hazy heat the sound of nothing at all.
The heat, almost intolerable.

I had a phone call last night.
The soft voiced receptionist at the surgery nervously informing me that Dr R at the hospital spoke with GP telling him that dialysis for mum won't take place. On account of her multitude of cancers. The poor woman having to do the deed was flustered and apologetic.
After hanging up I was angry that a non medical person was telling me about my mum and NOT a doctor, mum's doctor. So after taking Mr Horsehound's advice to 'sleep on it', I washed the dishes, half watched a film and went to bed for what was to be an almost sleepless night. Mother of course didn't know anything.

Early this morning I phoned the surgery.

When I eventually got a call back from the GP I asked him why he let an office person tell me the news that mum won't be treated for kidney failure after all.
He apologised often and loudly saying more than once that he was not an insensitive man and that he had made a mistake and that HE should have called me. Busy he said...
I didn't continue the chat preferring instead to accept his many apologies and hang up..
I'd told him how shocked, angry and disappointed I'd felt, that was enough.

Mum's legs let her down this morning, literally.
A bump and yell and I found her prostrate halfway between the hall and front room. It's a terrible sight seeing someone on their back when there's really no need, when I got her vertical her little yelps of pain cut through my hardened shell.
"Come on you" I joked dragging her to the bathroom.
Seriously ... it's no joke, and funnily enough caring for the feisty bean gives me strength, Figure that one out please because I can't.

I drove to the chemist for prescriptions, picked up the haul of drugs, then into the sweet shop for a Fry's Peppermint Cream.
My head thick with hunger and tiredness but it didn't stop me chattering to Nikki on the till, her false tan and eyelashes are amazing, her jokes abysmal. But she represents normality. Kind of.

Anyway back home and mum's attempt to walk to conservatory for a change of scene.
All well and good I thought till it came to lifting her up orf the two seater red and cream checked sofa to take her back inside.
Oh dear. The bag of bones slipped around........ unable to stand unaided I ended up needing to remove her slippers and jimjam bottoms. Better look and twat than break a shin.
We groped our way out of the boiling conservatory tip toeing our way through the equally hot kitchen ending up in the carpetted hall where her body became unstuffed. I mean she couldn't put one purple foot in front of the other.
After several reassurances that I wouldn't drop her I carried the cursing patient to her bed.
And that's where she'll remain until tomorrow when, she said, she'll be going shopping!
The human spirit, her will to carry on is astounding.
I feel alright now:)

Dancing In Morrisons

Was the only way I could express my joy at being out and about for 90 minutes without mum. God I'm not being cruel am I? I asked her if she wanted to come shopping with Mr Horsehound and myself but she said no. So we left the bungalow and strode to the car. She hasn't been well since the weekend only venturing out on Monday to Hockley  that's why I thought she'd like a trip out. But no, she was going to sleep she said.

I've worn my throat dry reading aloud the contents of two newspapers, I've worried about her face and the lumps in her back which are causing her pain, I've smashed plates in frustration. Her unwillingness to see a doctor is tantamount to self-harm.

But lives go on...

In Mo's place I couldn't help but move to the piped pop music, a male shelf filler asking Mr Horsehound what I was on! And could he have some please. Mr H cracked a joke as always while I trolleyed some Fruit and Fibre.  Dancing was/ is my way of expressing lust for life. It was not and is not a perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire. Well not with supermarket employees anyways.

I loved talking to Mike the butcher about the shoulder pork joint I was thinking of buying, our conversation being ordinary, quite mediocre chit chat, about prices and animal welfare. After a few minutes he bagged the pig and I went away.

Then, by the bread, I jigged some more, this time to Girls Aloud's Love Machine. Old Harry stacking the shelves said it was ok to dance as long as I didn't sing, because then I'd definitely be shown the exit.
I smiled swaying my hips in a moderately capable manner. He grinned shaking his head. I love spreading happiness.

By this time Mr Horsehound was wishing he was somewhere else, back in his office  I expect, his only real place of interest.
I continued to engage with both employees and customers enjoying not having to keep me tongue between me lips as so often happens when out with Mother, She regards my interaction with ordinary people as false and annoying.Oh but it's not dear, it's me.
Today though I was buzzing. Hell, it was hot and I was doing my best on all fronts, I was letting loose the life  inside, the life whereby I join in, happily revelling in social intercourse, dancing in Morrisons.

In the cool

A quick afternoon post written in the cool of the office after a morning roaming, idling, around Rochford square in melting heat with my good friend, Mr Hairy Suit.
Bag carrier deluxe.
I like Rochford square simply because it is a square. Small shops, the butcher, bakers, ironmongers and charity shops wall around the space, the square, where centuries ago people were burnt at the stake.
It hasn't an atmosphere, it's not a place of dread, I never feel the pain of the murdered I'm just enthralled and tickled by what I see and overhear. And buy.

On the left next to Yeo's the jewellers, is the Haven's Hospice charity shop. Gleadells butchers is where I once paid £7 for three lamb chops. I am not a frequent visitor. Tuesday is market day and there's not an inch of road to be seen, it's covered with covered stalls selling cold meats, plastic handbags, garish watches, flowered laundry bags and fresh fish. A stream of for hire taxis hog the road by the water trough waiting for wilting old ladies. The trough is as dry as dust of course.

How the Square used to look.

Today, after tea and toasted teacake in the Beehives Tearoom, Mr H and myself bought secondhand firstly from St Teresa's charity shop. She has no job there in reality, she is long gone but a small clog of noisy bustling matriarchs manned the till gossiping merrily. I imagined their ancestors screaming for scorched  hair when another witch was tied to the pole.
Anyway therein I bought two VHS tapes. 20p. James Bond's Die Another Day and Bruce Almighty. A theme running here?

Then out and away from the incensed fumed shop and into another place of value buys. The Horse Sanctuary charity shop where two women and one sitting down man condemned youth and Coronation Street.
More VHS tapes, a pink spotted blouse for an absent mum (too weak to shop) and a blue handled fish slice.

Mr H was a true gentlemen uttering not a sensible word or making any kind of huffing and puffing sound as he laboured in 90 degree heat carrying me bits. His doe eyes said it all. He loved it.

In then to the RSPCA shop where I squealed for joy on finding a decent deep fat fryer.

Oh home is where we now needed to go, back to an ailing mum and tea.

Mr H and myself made idiots of ourselves by sitting in the garden watching a butterfly and wondering when we'll be able to go camping.

Now I must fly, mother is drifting in and out of sleep, I creep in every ten minutes to check her pale face and to reassure her, if she's awake, that I'm only along the hall and to ring her bell if she needs anything. She rarely rings.
Which is great because it means I can pop a DVD on whilst making a Quiche Lorraine... in my quiet sun lit kitchen.

Baking

As mum is having a bad day I had to cancel her appointment at the eye clinic.
The lady I spoke to on the phone had a hush to her voice when I explained the situation. An appointment for August will be made.

Yes poor old mother, clutching her tum and nibbling on her cornflakes asked me why she felt so dreadful.
"You're not well" I said, my belly churning with the knowledge that all is definitely not well. Her yellowing complexion and constant sleepiness making me wonder if there are any other gremlins roaming around inside her amazingly resilient body.
We'll see.

Yesterday she wanted to go out.
 "Anywhere" she told me
So I took her there, it was a short visit to Southend.

First into HMV where I bought The Bette Davis Collection, four of her finest films in a gorgeous boxed set, mum kept silent. As she did when we went to Oxfam where she handed me a fiver for a red Debenham's handbag which is now hanging on the side of her bed.
She doesn't give a hoot about money. "I'm spending it all " she told me on Tuesday. "But what about the future" I asked like the optimist I am. "I'm 76, I don't have a future".
Phew! Say it like it is why don't you?

As we sat in the middle of the Birdwood cafe looking around, our tea boilingly, dangerously hot I was happy to be out, with other people. Life is with people. Mum however thought differently, after five minutes of staring into her polystyrene mug she politely asked if we could go home.
So up I got aching to spend more time browsing around shops, sitting on a bench in the sun eating a burger or standing stock still by Rossi's Ice Cream shop.
Anything to feel human again.

Anyway we were soon back at the car and with mum tied in place with a kitchen roll to hand in case of vomit attack, I drove away.

On my arrival and then entering my kitchen I was met by the imposing figure (5ft 11ins) of Mr Hairy Suit, who was infact, tinkering with my tea caddy. He has access you see, to all areas.
A quick helloo you and I was gone. Gone to be with mother who very tired and wanted to go to bed immediately. And as soon as I'd got her comfy she was away with the fairies . I felt relieved. I could now be away too. Relaxing in my overcrowded conservatory with Hairy and the perfect cup of tea.

God knows what is going on here. With Mother I mean. She scares me with these dips, she's 'with me' one moment, then dozing for three hours. Healthy appetite on Monday then half a banana on Tuesday. I'm confused. But I'm not really. I've looked it up, I've googled death.

And death makes life great.
I feel a hundred years old, yet there's a twenty five year old eating her way out, through the harness. I like her.

Being baked today.
An Orange and Carrot Cake
A white loaf
Chicken casserole.

Something Worth Sharing

Lemon Custard Cake

Custard filling

25g cornflour
300ml full fat milk
2 egg yolks
2 dessertspoons sugar
Rind and juice of a lemon
3 dessertspoons good lemon curd


Cake

225g self raising flour
125g tub margarine
75g sugar
1 beaten egg
good dash of vanilla essence
A little milk to mix
A little egg white to seal and paint

Make the filling first

1. Blend cornflour in a cup with a little of the milk
2. Mix egg yolks and sugar with fork. Add blended cornflour and gradually mix in the rest of the milk.
3. Put in a pan over a very low heat and, stirring continuously, bring to the boil.
4. Remove from heat, beat in the lemon rind, juice and lemon curd. Leave the custard to cool.

For the cake

5. Rub marg into flour
6. Mix in sugar, beaten egg, vanilla. Add a little milk, a tablespoon at a time and mix to a stiffish consistency.
7. Grease a loose bottomed 20cm cake tin and line with greased baking paper.
8. On a well floured worktop roll out just over half the mixture to a round approx. 27cm/10ins
9. Fit this carefully into the tin. You might need a couple of goes at this, if the dough splits don't worry just re-roll and start again. Then fill with the cooled custard. I decamped my saucepan to the fridge to make sure it was well chilled.. Fear not about the skin.
10. Brush around the edges of the cake with unbeaten egg white.

11. Roll out remaining cake mix and fit on top, again if it splits or cracks simply re-roll and drop on top of custard sealing it well with the egg white. No gaps please. Brush the top with remaining egg white.
12. Bake in centre of oven Gas 4/350F/180C for about 30 minutes or until the top is shiny and firm and golden.
13. Lift out of tin on removable base and slide orf base onto a cooling rack. Be careful, very careful. This is a thick heavy custard filled confection that demands a delicate touch.

Last night I served it simply, a wedge on a plate dusted with icing sugar. It could have some chilled cream poured over it and a few raspberries would be divine too.

Recipe by Mrs Carol Goldsmith of Beccles, Suffolk published in The Complete Farmhouse Kitchen Cookbook, 1984.

This went down well with Mr Horsehound, Mr Hairy and Mother although she had only a finger sized slice. The lads had decent wedges, Me? A ladylike morsel.

Feeling the effects of non-Wimbledon. No checking order of play on line then dashing into mother with all the news. Her responses, always colourful. Then yakking non-stop about the centre court roof, Rafa's legs and shocking exit, Murray's strange unjustified hatred of the English. Stops at Kim though.
But some positives.
Yesterday afternoon got to spend some much needed time in the garden drinking tea with Mr Hairy Suit. Mother wasn't neglected I'd handed her a green bell in case of emergency.
Luckily for us no ding dong.

Today no garden games, waiting in for nursie then a quick tour around Rochford looking in three charity shops and possibly Gleasedale's the butcher.
I do like Gleasdales but his prices make me retch.

Last night, on account of Mr Horsehound getting home at a reasonable hour, I managed a little special time in the conservatory handling my much neglected recipe books. Oh my God I've missed my paper babies.
Never neglect a hobby.
Found two new recipes... Hazelnut and Apple Cake and Carrot and Orange Cake. Cakes satisfy more than chops. Although on Sunday I will be making the weepingly gorgeous Honey Lamb Chops.

Now I must fly, breakfast needs serving, nursie might turn up on time and mother needs dressing.
Game on.

Oh Alright

Murray did well.
But 'Sir Andy'?
I don't think so.
He'll need to do a wee bit more before he's gonged.

I saw a flash of straight-faced Victoria Beckham in the Royal box . No David. Hmmm. The other Dave though was present, looking very smooth in his blue shirt and tie, the Prime Minister looked as though he was enjoying the match.
No Pippa though, pip pip hooray!
Maybe she's been leant on to steer clear of at least one major Summer event because her ever present boat race is everywhere. The girl is dull. Imagine not knowing who George Osborne is.
Kim, Lord Andrew's girlfriend, looked sweet in her long sleeved blue lacey frock, made such a change from the tubular scantily clad sunburnt arms of ordinary fans.
Arms are bad enough but unclothed legs are anathema, the pits.
Very rarely do I shock and or amuse the general public with a leg on show.
Ghastly.




Took mother out for a stroll this morning, we both enjoyed it and were covered from head to toe.
Popped into two charity shops buying two paperback recipe books and a sky blue pasta jar.
We have a feast of medical appointments this week so I'll be dipping into my stock of canned sardines.

Today

Mr Horsehound and I are taking Mother to the Dixon studio (part of the Palace theatre in Southend) to see 'HOUSE GUEST' a play by Francis Durbridge. Kick off 2:30.

Unsure of plays duration  so I'll have bananas secreted about my person in case mum or Mr H. come over funny.
I'm dressed for a summers afternoon...White linen trousers, blue embroidered shirt, cream woven type sandals. Horsehound looks cool in cream chinos and blue checked shirt. Mother insisting on wearing a flame red jacket.

If the play holds my attention my mind won't wander orf to the chicken I'll be roasting tonight in readiness for the salad we're eating tomorrow while watching Novak and Andy.
My dream afternoon.
Bare legged on the sofa watching the Gentlemen's Final at Wimbledon with a firm drumstick in hand.

Now I must fly:)

Today at The Bungalow

Threw mum into the micra and skidded orf to the Church charity shop wherein I found, for mother, three large print crime novels and one dotty cotton blouse. She would have looked around herself but she had wobbly legs and searing back pain.
I had a quick chat with Moira on the till about the heat then bundled mother back into the micra and sped around the corner to the blasted Co-Op. Inside was cool, and I had a senior moment where  couldn't remember what I'd gone in there for.
Standing by the carrots I shot up a request "Lord what am I here for?"
No immediate response of course but I soon found myself dropping salad, ricotta and spinach pasta and doughnuts into my black basket.
Lovely Irene took a disgusting amount of cash and I hot footed it back to the car to find mum wilting like a plant starved of water.
"Here, hold this" I said lovingly wondering how much more resolve and resilience is left in that dipping body.

We raced home and straight into the conservatory where we chatted away like two old birds sipping hot tea and eating non diabetic coconut sponge.
We yakked about... Bernie Nolan, Pippa Middleton and Andy Murray and his Pole.
Both of us feeling sorry for Bernie's daughter Erin, both of us laughing wickedly about reports that Ms Middleton will soon leave England to celebritize herself in the States. Lol! Yes Pip you may have a loose connection with the Royal Family but you ain't no Diana. She was charmingly barking, you m'dear are a non-entity, who by the way reminds me so much of the Wallis Simpson, the Duchess of Windsor. Face wise.
And then there was Andy's semi final match against Jerzy Polishman, standing at 6ft 8ins and with a 1000 mph serve Jerzy is bound to put our wee lad orf his stride.. a tad. I can't wait! I predict a Murray win.
Before that bloodbath Novak takes on Juan in the other match. Hoping of course for a Djokovic win...

So it's win win all round'

I'll quickly make a sausage risotto in between games.
After all one had one's priorities.

 

Another Day

Watching Wimbledon is keeping me sane.
If it wasn't for Murray's matches I'd go potty. The fun and swearing in the Horsehound drawing room when Moooooray plods out onto Centre Court makes excellent medicine for mother and I.
I suppose I am, as usual, enjoying a love/loathe relationship with the man from Dunblane. It's like I want him to win on account of him being British and all that but when it comes to it I can't quite bring myself to leap up from the sofa when he grabs the deciding set or when his opponent is roughing him up... something nasty gets me it's as if a tennis demon takes over preventing me, a great patriot usually, cheering him on...Something terribly English nails my English bum to my rose coloured cushion. I cannot clap that man.

Oh well, whether or not  I plump for the drainpipe lad tomorrow you can wager he'll have hundreds of flag waving hat wearing twats/fans sitting in their expensive seats yelling him on to thrash yet another Spaniard, Fernando Verdasco.
Where's all these Spaniards coming from anyway?

Talking of annoyances..these past two days Mother has been an almighty pain. Enough said. Suffice to say I felt like leaving orf the brakes on her wheelchair when I went in a shop buy her sardines.
And as I queued with the fish I imagined pictures of me in the local press...Haggard, 57 year old carer, Mrs Gloria Hortense Horsehound allowed her  wheelchair bound terminally ill mum to freewheel in bus lane. The 76 year old  was killed by a cyclist. Horsehound will be sentenced later today.
I daydreamed out of the Co-Op to find mum, still there.

And so we zigzagged carefully back to the car when a well cushioned old lady, dyed brown hair, ruddy skinned fed no doubt on plenty of lamb chops and gin barked in my face "look where you're going".
I didn't reply. I stood silent, expressionless on the kerbside looking into her rheumy failing eyes. She didn't see me, or hate me, not really, all she saw was someone in her way.
I didn't fight the old girl or give her the length of my tongue, because Life with mother has made me like that. So many things to care about, so many daily look-outs for symptoms of approaching death that I have to be judicious when dolling out bollockings.

We'll be glued to the tennis tonight with a plate of ham rolls for sustenance.