No Surprise

As you'd expect Christmas for me this year will be a mix of smiles and tears.

Smiles because I love baubles, candles and the fact that I've forgiven my next door neighbour for being an utter pain in the neck. A lot of strength comes from being magnanimous.
Tears will no doubt ruin my eye make-up as thoughts of mum accompany my festive preparations.And as her face appears in the steam on the kitchen window and her voice soothes as I peel yet another potato I will say "Merry Christmas, you old silly" and drop the spud in the pan.


This year's economically sound gift buying trips have been good but each one tainted by the fact that I didn't buy mum anything. Ouch!.Last year I bought her a wedding ring on account of the loss of her original ring (she was very upset about that) . 
This year the only losing going on was her losing her pain then me losing her.

But as I decorated the front room with coloured candles and a basket of tangerines  I talked to mum. I said I missed her and that I hoped she was ok.



This morning I'm off to see Hairy's Mum, the tiny feisty Viola. I've made up a small hamper for her and hubby, Trevor. It's stocked with chutney, cheeses, homemade cake and sugar free strawberry drops. (Vi being diabetic, but not a wholehearted one). Trevor will have what's left...

And that's what Christmas is about...Love. And inappropriate gifts!


Merry Christmas All.
Love
Angela x

I only went out for some beansproutss

But as the Co-Op is next door to the charity shop I thought I might as well pop in...
And as I stood at the till, cash in hand, I'd found a bamboo steamer and fountain pen, one of the volunteer ladies came up to me.
"Haven't seen your mum for ages. How is she?"
After quietly telling her she tapped my arm saying "It'll be alright love"

In the next charity shop Judy (72) said much the same thing. Her comforting words though interspersed with how, after losing her mum of 92 she still felt the loss even though it was several years ago.
"You never quite get over it" she said
Fighting to halt our tears we stood solemnly by the glassware, gazing at each other both missing our mums.


I managed to get the beansprouts and would have loved telling mum about the Chinese meal I'll be cooking Saturday.. She would of course bah-humbugged the idea preferring, of course, a nice bit of cod.

After a brief break with Mr Hairy Suit in a restored railway carriage on Coppins farm in the village of Alphamstone, I've thrown myself into decorating the bungalow with all things festive.
And after putting some parsnip soup in the slow cooker, I painted the doorstep ox blood red.

The front room has had a thorough make-over by moving furniture around from here to there and back again (!) and icing the dining table and mantelpiece with Christmas baubles and copious amounts of candles.

My new 'secondhand' walnut dresser looks glorious, it's glass shelves holding all my Agatha Christie books and on the cupboard a few of my favourite poetry and quote books. Last week I discovered a new author, Edward Marston. I've almost finished "The Excursion Train" a thriller set on a train in Victorian England. And yesterday, after I'd seen the dentist ( a mere filling)  I picked up two more of Marston's books in Oxfam.
 "The Silver Locomotive Mystery" and "Blood on the Line".
All featuring the formidable Detective Inspector Robert Colbeck and his sidekick the heavyset Sergeant Victor Leeming. There aren't many books which keep me turning pages but "The Excursion Train" certainly does. I love it.

Now I must fly...................

Coat £10. Hat £5. Gloves £2. Jeans £2. Bag £20. Boots £10.

05:30 about to catch the very early train to Liverpool Street on my way to Paris. Mr Hairy Suit driving Mr Horsehound and myself to the station.

Just before 6 am at the station. Mr H looking forward to his Paris jaunt. Honestly.

Costly Can Opener

I was opening a can of tomatoes and the opener. Didn't. Oh bother I thought so after attempting to get to the toms via a Swiss army knife I shot off to The Factory Shop.
£10 and bag of festive goodies later, I finally emptied the can of plum tomatoes into the pot. ( I was only gone an hour and a bit)
Details about tonight's truly authentic Italian dinner is over the page on 'My Table'.

Bought today: At very reasonable prices.
Two can openers £2:45 for the two.
Two small white bambis' for the tree £2 bar a penny
Twelve assorted paper doileys for Christmas fancies 75p
A roll of plain brown wrapping paper to wrap up Viola's Chocolate and Fruit Cake 75p
A bar of chocolate £1
A tree decoration for Mr Hairy Suit's tree. He'll love it I'm sure. Not telling the price because he reads this blog.
A stunning black plastic multi pocketted filing case (£1) to hold documents.
And ten candles.  £2.

That old charmer, Monty. What a little basket.

Christmas Shopping Spree. Not all pre-owned.

Started today.

One new artificial tree. £6.99. Pure green. 5ft tall. Argos. Cheery cashier with purple hair and winning smile.
A pack of 12 new red 'velvet' bows.£1.

Two pre-owned packs of assorted baubles, some wood, the others plastic and glass from a charity shop. £2

A big green wooden tray painted with naiive flowers, pre-owned, a snip at 99p. Will be used for holding a gift of festive munchies for Mr Hairy Suit's mum.

A small cut-glass vase, pre-loved, £1 from the Catholic church charity shop on the corner opposite the Co-Op.Heavyish and dusty but has come up a treat after a gentle soaping.
And to sit inside? Two bunches of not overly tall artificial poinsettas. All for £1.

The lovely elderly man doing the work was chastised by a ratty lady customer for calling her 'love'.
He was not downhearted because he carried on 'loving'.

Two boxes of Christmas lights to garland the big mirror over the gas fire. £2. The bulbs are clear, not coloured. Preferring the simple light to the fairground reds, greens and blues.

So I had a pleasant day dodging in and out of shops, not spending too much, not being greedy or too saintly either.
Spent a bit, smiled a bit.







 

A panoramic view from the hotel room taken by Mr Horsehound

 French clock on the Boulevard Saint Michel

 

 

 Trois policemen

 How cool is this?

An uplit church or monument

Woman collecting money, white cat and moi.

One of thousands of restaurants.

The Seine

Notre Dame.

Notre Dame and the Seine.

More like Disneyland than Paris.

Outside Notre Dame. Spot the sparrows.

 

Video of me feeding French pigeons.

Arguing over right of way.

Monsieur Chat on the door of the council offices.

One of Mr Horsehound's fascinating panoramas.

And back in England...Mr Hairy Suit invited Mr Horsehound and myself to the Rochford Beer Festival.

Paris Paris Paris so wet

and magnificent I can't wait to return...........

A mere 34 hrs in the beautiful city and my head is still filled with death defying images of closet suicidal motor bikers slipping effortlessly, deliciously, between pedestrians on the pavements of Boulevard Saint Michel, my heart aching for the perfumed vocabulary of cafe staff especially when silkily uttering the ordinary ....."Bonjour Madam".

We arrived in rain and left in damp darkness. More of the departure though later....

We ate French food.
The most perfect trois oufes omelette filled with fatty thick slices of jambon, I mean, oh come on, it pushed through the yellow envelope of mountainous puffed up egg like a pink fleshed living jewel. Exquisite golden crusty petit pain with a rich off white crumb and nippled tip spread lavishly with divine President butter. To die for. Black tea, a small teapot of hot water alongside a small white cup with a Lipton tea bag. The French even make a teabag tres elegant.
Snickers bars from the Monprix and fluffy full fat fines herbes cheese and prune youghurt for a midnight feast.
And, on Tuesday evening, on the way to Gard du Nord,  the reddest sweetest framboise tartlette.

We attempted to converse in French, Mr Horsehound fairing much better than me.
He gave those Parisiennes a run for their money. I wasn't surprised at all. I've always known he's bi-lingualish.
I did ok...
"Merci beaucoup" being a particular favourite of mine.

I loved everyone of those sales assistants especially the pretty brown haired madamoiselle who smiled a thick red lipsticked smile at me as she placed the vintage handbag into my eager English hands. It's a beauty. Tan leather, battered by life, brass fittings. At least de cinquante ans.
It was a filthy price, 35 euros, but at last I had it. The perfect sac.

A funny thing happened in Notre Dame.

We were going about our devotions, well I was anyway, Mr H just added to his photo collection. When out of nowhere, actually she materialised by the devotional candles.... A little white haired paper thin gran mere. Dressed in grubby grey jumper and faded black maxi skirt and no higher than a small stool she collared us. Her big wooden crucifix hanging by a thin string lying perfectly flat against her woollen clothed breasts.
"Bonjour" she said tenderly
"Bonjour Madam" we softly replied in unison taking kindly to the friendly soul...

And so for the next fifteen minutes we were told the histoire of the world, the devil and his minions...and how the world is run by the numbre sept. She wasn't making an awful lot of sense but we respected her faith and eagerness to spread the word so let her pour her heart out.
We did though correct her when she said God worked for a full seven days... Oooops. She did not like one bit being reproached/corrected gently by a couple of crafty foreigners. This rung whacking great alarm bells.

By this time Mr H and myself were getting suspicious of the real reason for being halted in God's house by this skinny granny with watery pale blue eyes and crusty deep purple lips. She was, she said, a volunteer, but she wore no badge saying "I'm Madeleine, here to help" and she was, I thought, a little mad. It was as if the spirit was in her burning brightly, nicely, but a serious lack of patience with us was manifesting itself. A bit unchristian methought.
But being happy and of a generous nature we let her continue her homily
Oh yes.

As we shifted from foot to foot with achiness I piped up that we would prefer to continue to our walk alone peacefully, but that we had learnt from her a lot about many religions and for that we were eternally grateful.
She smiled broadly, and holding my hand asked ever so innocently if we'd make a small contribution...
John and I looked at each other and smiled. We'd been had.
The lady was an in-house beggar.
I gave her money. I admired the cheek and love a good performance.

And it was the second time I'd given to the less fortunate, the street wise, the first time was to large boned shawl covered gypsy who had, sitting at her booted feet, a small white cat. I gave her some change, she blessed me. I hadn't been conned, I knew the score, I just loved the puss.
The cathedral con though was good, being economical with the truth in a house of God... respect Madam, respect.
Even a hard-bitten dodgy merchant like moi couldn't/wouldn't pull off a coup like that.

We left the hotel on Tuesday at 11 am and had neuf heurs to kill so instead of riding the Metro from one arrondissementto the next we walked. And walked. And walked...And after dix heures and many cafes and shops we arrived at Gard du Nore.


Mon Dieu, I love you Paris.



As soon as I do the photos I'll upload them.

Busy busy  busy...England playing tonight. Kick off 5pm. Have a curry to make too. Chicken and fruit with spicy rice. And for afters, lychees and cream.

This morning I bought a secondhand camel coat in the YMCA shop. Handed over a tenner AND the coat I was wearing. A hideous black and white thing I only wore because it was cold and raining. Girl on till thought it hilarious.
I thought it normal.
On Thursday I did the same thing. This time, handbags.

Glass storage jars (new) to hold my recently acquired spices and peppers.

Paul Hollywood's Pie and Puds book. In WH Smiths. Half price. Recipes for Bedfordshire Clangers and Scotch Pies. Had to have it. I'd run out of money by then so I asked Mr H. if he would loan me a fiver. He coughed up quickly and happily.
"Small pie, dear?"

Fur hat. £5. Bought from a stallholder who called me 'matey'.
I liked that. After all I didn't look like a girly girl, all pink and glitter I looked like a little woman, all sensible coat and glasses. Oh how wrong he was!
Hat looks great anyway.


I've been feeling rather perky lately whether or not it's the thought of going to Paris on Monday or the fact that I'm just feeling better all round I don't know, but life is nice.

It's ok

I'm having a girlie day in.
Reading magazines generously given to me by Viola, Hairy Suit's mum, being soppy with Monty by rubbing his belly and hand-feeding him cheesey biscuits, listening to Radio 4 and in so doing being educated, informed and entertained. And while I listen I relax.
Mum was fond of saying that if you can't sit still doing nothing in particular then there's something wrong.
And, as usual, the old bean was right.

I am having a lovely day.
My tum though is kicking up a fuss on account of being empty but fasting occasionally for a few hours is beneficial. I assume. I'm being kept upright by drinking tea and thinking about last night's fantastic picnic pie (details on My Table). Funnily enough when I go without food for a little while my head clears, and I love that.

Tonight Mr Horsehound and myself are guests of Mr and Mrs Hairy Suit where, I'm sure, their table will be overflowing with delectable goodies...

Now I must slowly glide into the bedroom because I feel another readathon is called for...This time chilling out with Elizabeth Goudge's The White Witch.
Aaaaah x

Just a hat

On my way back from Morrisons I dashed into the church charity shop and found a beige-tinged-with-brown hat hanging up high. After several attempts to knock it off its perch I did so and studied the wide brimmed hat closely. 'As good as new' I thought 'I'll have that hat'
And after a quickly perusing the bric-a-brac shelves I handed over 50p to the ever so presentable lady manning the till.
"Oooh a hat" she said
" Yes" I said " And I won't need a bag because I'm going to wear it here right now"
A little laugh from the lady and out I strode into the chilly day that is today.

I Now Know What Old is

Having spent the last two days in the company of Young Hairy Suit (a.k.a 14 year old who never stops) I am physically and emotionally exhausted. Oh Boy can that young man TALK and EAT. I, along with his dad, could barely keep up with him.
We spent two days hanging out in shops and cafes and houses and pubs. Eating, drinking and spending money like tomorrow never existed. Great fun though.....

Markie Boy is a wonderful child.
Growing taller and more charming by the day, a real chip off the old block.
And what matters most is that he sees life for what it is...A laugh.
No quibbles about calories or cost he lives life to the max. Dad and me though worrying constantly about how much fat was in the bean burger and would the hole in the wall machine spit out any more dosh.
Somehow we survived and after a brief game of 'no rules' snooker at his house I came home thoroughly fed and watered and completely loved-up. By the way Markie boy wants to marry me when I'm older! Yes thank you Mark that's quite enough from  you YOUNG MAN.

For two hectic days I played the fool, dancing and cuddling, squeezing ketchup bottles willy nilly, feeding Mark's insatiable appetite for play acting (mostly when we were eating) and losing my old woman self in the scintillatingly simple universe that Mark inhabits.

Priorities

The garage needs tidying, re-arranging, given the Gloria HoHo make-over. The hall needs to be finished...half painted and then left, a common occurence I like to think. The garden needs a brisk loving hand.
However I won't be doing any of these jobs until after Mr Horsehound has finished his Autumn holiday. A week a away from work to rest and play. A week in which two of those precious days will be spent in Paris. With me.

Night after night of looking across the tea table at his reasonably handsome but pale old face made me think "Oh boy, you need a break, man".
So I got going......

I thought about holiday cottages in Suffolk/Essex,  and, tranquil and interesting as they were, I decided on a hotel in the middle of Paris.
I, along with Hairy Suit, did it all online. I booked our passage on EuroStar, bagged a big room at Grand Hotel des Gobelins  57, Boulevard Saint-Marcel and then Hairy and I trained it to London to pick up the tickets at St Pancreas International.
Mr Hairy Suit was constantly in attendance and constantly amazed.
We exchanged Sterling for Euros, had an outrageously over-priced piece of cake and cup of tea but it was worth it.
I was doing something wonderful.
Keeping it secret lasted 24 hours.
I HAD to tell him. So Tuesday evening, just before we had a pair of pork chops I dropped his passport onto his dinner plate saying "You're going to need this"
Puzzlement, paleness, stutterings.
Then I handed him his small bag of Euros, train tickets and camera.
"What's this?" he cried. Literally.

He's been happy ever since.

Small things please small people

As I slit the head off of my lightly boiled egg I listened, enraptured, to a fifteen minute programme on blessed Radio 4 about Germany's engineering expertise.
The speaker, a German, spoke eloquently about metalwork, cuckoo clocks and how, in the 1930's the Volkswagen Beetle was designed by Herr Ferdinand Porsche after Herr Hitler wanted a cheap little runaround for his peoples.
A better fifteen minutes I have never spent....
Being educated.
Listening to Monty licking his bowl clear clean of its chicken in gravy cat food.
The hypnotic whirring of the tumble dryer.
The clinking of a teaspoon in the sugar bowl.
The egg, just as I like it, firm white body holding inside an almost liquid yolk.

Rock Stars Dancing Like Your Dad

UKIP if you want to, Gloria is wide awake

So the little thought of United Kingdom Independence Party has bagged its first seat in the House of Commons. And about time too say I.
Nigel Farage's often ridiculed party claimed the Clacton-on-Sea seat through a bi-election caused by the resignation and subsequent defection to UKIPof former Tory MP. Mr Douglas Carswell.

On the left an overjoyed Nigel Farage with an equally bouyant Douglas Carswell. Photo courtesy of The Guardian.

It was a thumping victory. and in so doing surely sent shock waves through Tory HQ because what'll happen next methinks....will other Tories jump ship?
I'm not excellent at prose but you get what I'm getting at.
If Carswell a once staunch Tory boy can wander off into Farage's arms who else will?
I forsee not a bombardment of defections but a slow trickle...
And as for Nick Clegg and his group they only managed to get 400 + voters to tick the appropriate box. A sad and worrying day for the Liberal democrats.
Likewise for Ed Miliband.
Politics, at the moment, is virile and interesting. And I can't wait for the General Election in May 2015.

Spoiler ALERT! This post reveals the winner of the Bake Off....

Nancy won the final of The Great British Bake Off and a very well deserved win it was.
She was consistently good, no gimmicks, humorous and I loved her hair. So well done Nancy.
And as usual the series was fantastic, lots of fun, tons of information, a veritable feast of entertainment. An all round fine way to spend an evening. Thank you BBC for a fine piece of tv.
Can I have another slice please?

Not a Nancy cake in sight but I'm very proud of my little efforts.Especially the scones.

Nasty Council. Deaf and Idiotic Too

I've just received a summons, or rather mum has, for non-payment of council tax.
In the weeks after her death I spoke to a couple of people from Westminster Council regarding her arrears. They wanted to know why she was behind with her payments.
I told them she was dead.
"Oh" came the reply
"Sorry. I'll see if we can write it off"
That was a good while ago. Never heard from them again. Till today.
A red letter too telling mum she has to go to court to explain to the magistrate why she hasn't paid.
Well unless his Honour is a whizz with the Ouija board there's not much chance of him getting a reply.
Damn these people to hell.

I'm slipping up.
Yesterday I actually MISSED the Liberal Democrats groaning on at their annual conference. This was due to being held captive by pots and pans and all things kitcheny. I did though, during a brief break, catch sight of a dark shirted Nick Clegg speaking to the converted. His cool wide eyed guy image in stark contrast to one member of the audience; a sleeping-head -hanging -to -one -side-middle-aged lady who, for reasons known only to herself, decided to catch a few zzzzzs while the Great Leader performed.
I love scenes like that.
I'm betting Cleggy hopes old sleepyhead won't let the side down tomorrow when he steps up on stage to give another speech. He will be praying she and other members of the Lib Dems stay awake...But I'll bet eagle eyed cameramen will hunt down and then zoom in on heavy lidded Liberals.
Snoozing is as part of Conferences as speeches.

The X Factor is really annoying me.
The weekend's offerings brought tears. Too many.
Odd choices. Why didn't the nice red haired cool voiced mum go through to Live Shows?
Gasps of incredulity in the Bungalow as Chloe Jasmine Whichello( who was on the show in 2006 and booted off) a  bleached - blonde girl with fake posh accent wiggled her way through to the next round. Her posing and showyoffness rubbed me up the wrong way. I don't mind posers IF they have the weapons to back it up. All this girl offered was a sick mix of Marilyn Monroesque/Princess Diana poses and pouts and a strained bluesy voice. I Like Marilyn, I like Diana I like Blues but I don't like to see a bad mash-up. Cheryl Ann Fernandez-Versini (singer? turned weeping judge) gave the thumbs up to whatshername and in so doing start a Marmite War. People will either love her or loathe her.
I know what camp I'm in.
Talking of excitement...


Euro 2016 Qualifier. 
Thursday 9th October
Kick Off 19:45. 
Wembley. 
England v. San Marino

The Plug...

My latest bake invention is on 'My Table'

Must dash. Have to help Mr Hairy Suit find a good barber.


Also my Prime Minister is making his conference speech today.

X Facts. Updated with disco video

I'm waffling on about cake and cabbage over on My Table blog.

Meanwhile I'm reading Mary Berry's autobiography, and waiting for tonight's installment of that silly X Factor. Last night was ridiculous. In the chair. Out of the chair. Puddles of GENUINE tears from the women judges.
A lovely fantastic looking boy with big eyes, bad hair but different kinda singing voice being booted off in favour of a lesser light.
It is utter tosh.
But funny and harmless tosh and in the great scheme of things nothing more than a little giggle on a Saturday night.
In the words of Lou Lou " I like it"

"Oh hello Glo, it's you again. Yes tanks for the shirt. it reminds me of an old C&A one. I like it"   

For the record the boys I like are. In no particular order.

Andrea Faustini and Paul Akister.

Don't Stop Me Now

Last Saturday Mr Horsehound, Mr Hairy Suit, Mrs Hairy Suit, little Hairy Suit and me went to the end-of-season disco at the Riverside Village. The theme was masks. Here is little Hairy holding onto my arm while I look at Big Hairy's moustache.

As soon as we arrived at 7:15 we got on the floor and danced immediately to classic disco numbers. By the time the other caravanners got tipsy we'd already done some major moves.

Young Hairy keeping guard in case his dad and myself fall over. At this time we were being oggled by at least 100 people. The more they oggled the more daring I was. Mr Hairy did his best to keep up. By the way as soon as Mr Horsehound tidys up a rather dark home movie I'll upload it.

Lets just say I was getting in the groove. I have no idea what Hairy was up to. It doesn't bare thinking about. Bless.

Here's young Hairy just before he embarked on some cool break dancing. His daddy is in the background wishing he could join in.

The oldies watching as young Hairy twists and turns. His mum can be seen in the near background wearing a black and white dress and red hat. Little Hairy fears nothing and throws himself into everything. He was much in demand on the dance floor.

Oh boy Mr Hairy cuts a fine figure. I, on the other hand, was lost in the music of my youth.

I can't describe how it felt letting myself go. No fear. I wriggled and jumped and wove my way around the dark wooden flooring without a care. I'd forgotten how good dancing makes you feel. I mean, I danced with Hairy and his son, then Mr Horsehound and Mrs Hairy joined in then I danced on my own, gyrating to Little Richard, Beyonce, Abba, Michael Jackson, Earth Wind and Fire, Robin Thicke, The Four Tops, The Foundations, Jerry Lee Lewis and Elvis, even the Nolans and hundreds of others. I positively lunged and stretched, dipped and swivelled, bringing out from the closet of my disco memory the kind of moves I won presents for. Mind you that was a long time ago. But I was awarded a bottle of champers for my efforts on the night. One of the organisers saying "Here you go, you danced your a*** off".

As Mr Hairy and I rocked to Tutti Frutti an image of dad and mum swept infront of my eyes. They, especially dad, rock and rolled all their life, being happy young lovers in the 1950's. And as I wished for the music to never end I pictured dad throwing mum around the front room. "What do you think dad" I shouted breathlessly. Never heard his reply but I knew he was rockin and rollin right there with me.

It was a fantastic evening, Mr Horsehound doing his cameraman bit, Mrs Hairy Suit gently swaying to 'Build Me Up Buttercup', Mr Hairy Suit pleasing the ladies with his saucy moves. Me? I just let everything out.




A video will hopefully appear tomorrow..

I was right about him all along

Andy Murray has caused an online stir by his last minute show of support for the YES campaign.
Dirty rotten scoundrel.
British my eye.
Always supports anyone who plays against an England team, whatever the sport.
"I'm not playing for Britain, I'm playing for Scotland" he said
Lives in England, dating a pure English rose of a girl.

Lovely Kim Sears. Murray's long long time girlfriend. How?

Learned his tennis skills in England.
Etc etc....
Then at the last moment comes out in favour of Scottish Independence.

Leader of the Scottish National Party. Alex Salmond. Who. many years ago, never got over being given the elbow by his English girlfriend.. His nationalist fervour always coming first. Thanks Debbie...

And it doesn't stop there. Andy's mother, Judy, is taking part in the current series of Strictly Come Dancing. And Murray is horrified. What a son!

Judy Murray and traitor son.

There have been murmurs of next year's Wimbledon being even more enlivened by a bit of booing....
I could understand it if that happened. But we're English. Polite to the point of stupidity. I very much doubt Murray will get hissed.Probably just get online death threats.

In Other News.....
I, and other members of my fan club, are going to the end of season disco at the Riverside village where my caravan is.

Riverside. My spiritual home. Lovely caravans down there.

It's a themed affair. The theme being MASKS. Not having any in the bungalow, I bought a plain white papier mache one which I'll decorate nicely. A pic will be posted tomorrow.


Now I must fly but not before wishing a Re-United Kingdom all the very best.

This artwork sums up what I try to put into words. Its creator is 'anonymouscreative'

Tomorrow Scotland will decide whether to go it alone or keep the ancient union intact.....
.

I think the vote will be as close as a Scot is to his wallet.

I wouldn't mind if the Scots lass and tv personality Lorraine Kelly got swallowed by the Loch Ness Monster.
I wouldn't bat an eyelid if Andy Murray came out.
I'd be chuffed if the Scotland football team got a goal.
I'd love to hear that Scotland's First Minister Alex Salmond was lying when he said he likes England.
I do a jig if Billy Connolly made me laugh. So far nothing.


However...



I'll worry if a new found independence will seal the fate on the Haggis. For centuries it has escaped Scotland managing to find its way over the border onto the plates of us English. Aye, we'll miss the tasty legless brainless meatloaf .


I'd be sad if our Union Jack lost it's blue.

"But let here be spaces in your togetherness"

On Saturday, after ordering new glasses, I, along with Mr Horsehound and Mr Hairy Suit, travelled the length of Rayleigh High Street looking for charity shop gems. Mr HS found shoes and a jacket, Mr H enlarged his DVD collection while I met up with an old friend, the Lebanese poet and philosopher Kahlil Gibran. 'The Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran'  was wedged between a gardening book and atlas. I bought it immediately.

When I was a young teenager I'd bought a copy of  'The Prophet'. I didn't understand it of course I was only 13 but was impressed by it. It's a collection of prose poetry about all the things in the world  Clothes, eating, drinking, marriage, death and self-knowledge etc etc....
Rather like a blog infact. Only Kahlil, knew how to write. And comfort. And make a lasting impression.


So with the book in my mitts and dying for tea I left the shop.

I must admit that lately I havn't been tip top, dying my hair didn't help, I went spiralling out of control thinking about mum and dad and cash and peeling paint and genes and hereditary illnesses, you know what I mean at any rate I felt down. The downness sent me over the edge falling blindly headlong into the lap of my local chemist.. What an idiot. I'd been joyfully embracing the grey then, for some reason known only to my demons, I dyed it. And dyed it again.
Then undid it by using a colour remover. And, as a result, am now the depressed owner of a head of strawberry blonde hair. I loathe it. People though say it 'suits' me. It does not. What 'suits' me is 'me'...Greying mousey hair perfectly in tune with my English colouring... This reddish mop framing my face is hideous. So later this afternoon my hairdresser, the very blonde Lisa will see to it by cutting it off.

I've rambled enough......



"I am bored with gabbers and their gab; my soul abhors them....
Is there in this universe a nook where I can go and live happily by myself?
Is there any place where there is no traffic in empty talk?
Is there on this earth one who does not worship himself talking?
Is there any person among all persons whose mouth is not a hiding place for the knavish Mister Gabber?"

Kahlil Gibran


(Good, isn't he?)

David Beckham. We Need You.

I will gobble my pollock so I don't miss any of the exciting thrilling mood enhancing moments of tonight's televisual feast...England v. Switzerland.

A qualifier for Euro 2016.
Euro 2016.
Seems aeons away, but it isn't. After a couple of christmasses and a watery summer big football will again be upon us.
I do wish Becks was still playing. I think the team could do with not only his exemplary ballmanship but his thorough love of playing for his country. That above all else makes him a giant amongst his fellow pros, who, I felt at times, didn't give a fig about wearing the England shirt. Beckham though wore it like a second skin. That's why I've always loved him.

In an interview with the Mail, 39 year old Golden Balls said he'd like nothing more to be needed by his country. Oh we need him alright, it's just finding the right spot for him. He's uninterested in going down the manager road but surely Hodgo could find him something to do in the dressing rooms. Something akin to a WiseMan, a sage. A fine still youngish man who, given the chance could instill in the younger players a sense of "Oh Yeah, it's fantastic, I'm playing for my country and there's nothing better than that".

Tonight ITV 19:15 hrs

I, along with David, will be hoping......

St Francis and friends

Help

Unsure how much more I can take





After walking the streets looking for work yesterday I'm now faced with more hell



What to watch tonight


The Great British Bake Off

or


Captain Rooney leading England out to play the Norwegians tonight at Wembley.

"Head up captain, Gloria has chosen YOU"

"I'm THAT close to thumping Horsehound. Rooney rather than ME!"

Mr and Mrs Randall 51, Caernarvon House, Hallfield Estate, LONDON W2 5EQ. HOME

The ashes of my wonderful parents now lie amongst the roses in the flowerbed outside their block of flats.
They also enrich the vast lawns surrounding their home, the railings too being knighted by their dust. Not content with lavishing the exterior I dropped  handfuls of silver ashes through their letterbox and along the windowsills of the kitchen and bathroom. I don't have the keys any more so when I peered tearfully
 through the letterbox I was saddened, made numb by what I saw. The rooms were empty. The council  had been in, removed chairs and cupboards and cooker and dad's desk. It wasn't home any more.
I didn't know what to say to Mr Horsehound as I let the letterbox snap shut.
We stepped into the lift and before pressing the button we let loose heaps of mum and dad down the lift shaft.
Standing on the sixth floor of their block of flats we graced the air with falling ashes and as they drifted and danced through the London air sunlight made them old bones twinkle .
As we drifted away I scattered what was left of my parents, my friends, in the children's playground where mum and me used to sit.
Tears blurred my vision as I said goodbye. They are now though back home. And I have to say I feel like I've left them.
I  hope they'll be alright.

Home. A Poem

Tomorrow I'm taking mum and dad home.  
Back to London they will go. 
On the train. 
In my arms.
And whether snow, heatwave or flood I will,
with acres of love wrapped and wound around me,
throw the perfect loves of my life
from their verandah
along the grass verges
from the rooftop

like loved-up confetti.

Table Sale

Several people showed an interest in the Stewart Granger DVD boxed set but no sale. Two ladies bought two dresses and were pleasantly stunned by the asking price. £1 each.

Here I am trying to flog some Agatha Christie. A nice old lady said she only watches the televised versions of Ms Christie's books. She didn't, she said, have the patience to read. A man with a skull tattoo bought a Denzel Washington DVD. Might seem hard to believe that I'd sell a film with my favourite actor in it but it isn't, I feel, one of his finest. Got 50p for it.

I had four handbags to sell and sold two also giving pleasure was a small red purse which the customer said would be lovely for her mobile phone. Thank you very much Madam. Another 50p.

My next door neighbour the ever so sweet Michelle bought a paperback copy of Mrs Beeton. Going well I thought.
After a while the crowds dwindled so while Mr Horsehound held the fort Mr Hairy Suit and I had a meander to check out my high-powered retail rivals,
Rubbish! It was a diabolical liberty what they were charging. I did though swing by an Asian gentleman's little emporium and buy a flan tin. He was chuffed. Later on  his wife strolled over to my table and bought a black and white frock for £1.

It was a fabulous morning's work. Sunny, funny and a little bit of money.


By the way I couldn't shift the lamp.
All offers gratefully received.

Plates and Cake Pics

Never one to miss a decent plate I bagged eight today in the charity shop.
All caramel coloured with squiggly flowers. Not worth a brass farthing but absolute gems to a collector like me.
Also bought for 75p were two fair sized bowls which will be used for pasta.
A whisk for 25p.
A pink feather duster 50p.

Talking of shifting old stuff..I've bought my pitch on which I'll be setting up my table to sell old wares this Saturday.........
Can't wait...

BY the way over on My Table there are pics of food. Might take some cakes to sell on Saturday....
Watch this space.

Two Strikes

It's a wonder my monitor didn't explode yesterday ( 14th ) I did after all score two Strikes when bowling and, being a glutton for punishment, I had to choose the heaviest ball,
And as I watched the huge purple thing career down the alley I thought..."Ticker prob? What ticker prob? I mean that was one heavy ball and 5ft me hurled it graciously with not even a hint of approaching cardiac arrest.
Total rubbish all these hospital appointments.
They're taking up time which could and should be spent engaging in nicer things. Like shopping. Like cooking. Talking of which...After bowling Young Little Hairy Suit and I dawdled around two charity shops, me with my hand constantly in my purse, and little Hairy groaning with all the stuff he'd 'bought'.
Later on....
Cooking was done.. I made Nasi Goreng for last night's tea. And as Mr Horsehound scooped up his pork I dreamed about the weekend's food.
It's good to dream. Nay, essential according to psychiatrists. So off my mind went coming up with some tasty treats for the weekend. Mostly cake.

After bagging groceries this morning I'll take a little time out for a light luncheon. Probably some kind of meatless sandwich. Then I'm off to the hospital to drop my monitor into a big box.

I'd love to be a fly on the wall when the doc 'reads' it.
"Good God woman what WERE  you doing on the 14th from 11:30 am to 1:30pm?"
"Having a ball Doc, having a ball"

I Didn't Set Orf Any Alarms

......Today my ticker was looked into by Rachel and Catarina. On Monday it was gazed at by Simon. All thoroughly decent cardiac bods at Southend hospital. Each of them doing their bit to find out what is happening to my most vital organ
I wont go into ghastly detail about all the procedures I'm sure you can figure it out, suffice to say a lot of gels and computers and wires were flung about.
After an indecently early appointment (08:40) with Rachel I was ushered orf down the lemon and brown corridor to see tall dark haired Caterina who, bless her tried to put me at ease.
"Its alright I just put theeese on your skin and dey monitor what your art is doing" Big grin.
Oh my Lord I thought I'm going to be done up like a kipper. But I needn't have worried the small cream coloured apparatus which is stuck smack bang in the middle of the Great Valley of Boosarms isn't too offensive to the eye. I do though dislike the long wire which dangles from it ending up with another gizmo attached to my left rib.
"Undo it if you take a shower" said Caterina
"And after you dry remember to re connect"

Oh God.

I need to wear this contraption until Saturday until then if I get any pain or strange sensations I'm to log it on a bit of paper noting the time and activity I'm engaged in......Hmmmm




Imaginary scenario which might make the consultant wonder what the heck I'm doing there in the first place...

Ooooh baby, we'd better not...

but why darling why

my cables might pop out

oh yeah..... I forgot

yeah well I have to log any action that ups my heart rate

you don't mean?

I do

can't you disconnect?

for how long

Oh I dunno

The usual? 10 mins

I was thinking more of a long nighter, say two hours max

You must be joking honeykins National Health Service equipment isn't that good it might start smoking

oh alright then 10 mins

and darling...remember..... don't bite me connectors

Like To See You Again, Mum

- emboldened
- I clung to my camera
- in hopes you'd tip tip toe into view
- but all I got was
- more desperate

- ethereal images in shopping malls only fit well in movies

A Wonderful Day

...I intended to pop to the local shop for bread, milk and cat biscuits but for some unknown reason ended up jumping on a bus, asking for a day rover ticket. Hockley was my first stop. Judy, the lady on the till in the Friends of Lions charity shop asked where mum was.
On hearing the news she cried..... holding my hand in her brightly nail polished hand.. We shared feelings over the counter which was strewn with rings and things and cards and trinkets. Easing myself away I looked around the small shop picking up a little ornament. After paying Judy we exchanged a few comforting uplifting words and I boarded another bus this one taking me to the heart of Southend-on-Sea.

It was a warm day and I walked slowly from charity shop to charity shop stopping ocassionally to text Hairy Suit about my doings. And as I reached the High Street I texted back a firm  'yes' to lunch at Birdwood cafe.
I strolled on..... coming to the Cancer Relief shop where mum and I used to hang out.
I was hot but unbothered and then I saw a box...Yellow and large...Full with hardback Agatha Christie books..... 50p each..........And as I handled the volumes sitting cross legged on the faded mat I was convinved Mum was behind this terrific day.
I hadn't set out for a shopping spree all I needed was bread and milk and yet there I was in Southend flicking through the pages of Ten Little Indians et al.
After no thought at all I bought Ten Little Indians And left the shop wishing I could have bought more...

Then I met Hairy Suit for lunch at Birdwoods and after hearing me enthuse about the book collection just down the road he smiled and suggested we dash back to get the lot.
And after some wheeler dealing I handed over £20 for 92 novels. We'd cut a deal with Steve. He was happy. And by jolly jingo so was I.
A winters worth of fine reading from the Mistress of Crime. They kept hold of the books till closing time when Hairy and myself would return in a car. I, remember was carless. Hairy however never goes anywhere on foot.

Then I was left to my own devices. Never a good thing because I'm apt to get up to mischief. And today was no exception. Feeling as a weight was being lifted I felt able free and zingy. So I wandered around a crowded  chemist and bought a lipstick then wandered around a jewellers and bought myself an Amber and silver ring.
I felt invigorated. I was convinced that by some magic or wishful thinking mum had been walking beside me today. Tosh or not. I felt like it had to be done.  I needed to be with people because life is with people.

Then a quick dash to a bench where I applied lipstick and removed my sunhat. I'd arranged to meet Hairy at his place of work and within a few moments I was standing in the lobby of the huge building being eyed up by two security men.
"I'm here to meet my friend" I twinkled
"He's on the top floor and should be down momentarily" I twinkled again.

Within five minutes I was best mates with the boys as we rattled on about the British Movie Industry.

Hairy appeared with his boss and after a most unladylike firm handshake I bid him farewell and legged it across the car park yammering away to Hairy Suit.
Within five minutes the books were in the boot of the car and we headed  home. Me utterly convinced  that mum was behind this extraordinary day. If she was then thanks mum for leading me the right way, if not, if it was just good fortune then alright that's fine with me. Whatever the explanation it was A Wonderful Day.

Knees willing....

I'll go for a long walk this morning.
Not that I know where to go of course.
But I can't do what I did yesterday, stay in and watch two films.
I think I'm missing the adrenaline rush I had when mother was in the house.
I had no time to think it was action action action. Mother though said that if you couldn't sit still there was something wrong with you.
Yep sure is something wrong my dear. You died.

It's The Little Things

I went into one of mum's favourite charity shops yesterday and came to a hurtful halt when I saw one of mum's handbags hanging on a rack.

I'd recently given the church shop a sack of mum's bags, they were after all no good for her anymore and I knew she would have preferred them to go to place where, in the fullness of time, someone else would get pleasure from them as she did.

Yet when I saw the small brown handbag hanging amidst all the other bags it brought home to me my loss.
We had spent time and a small fortune in charity shops buying up bits and bobs, bags and blouses, ornaments and books, they were places of pleasure where we could spend our cash willy nilly and NOT break the bank.

Coming home, either to my bungalow or to her flat we'd drop the bulging bags down, I'd then make tea and drink it while holding up a blouse or bag each getting nods of approval from the other.
It was the one area where we truly connected. There were many others where we did not. But today is not about differences it is about talking kindly.

She was born in 1937 in London to poor parents, an only child and a much loved one. Growing up in London during the war she had of course many memories to store up, too many to note here but her childhood was one of pretty dresses and fussing parents. Then mum grew up and fell in love with my dad, Fred, it was then she was met with the wrath of bullish parents who, at the time, were not happy with their daughter's choice of partner, and so they really dug their heels in refusing to attend the marriage and then after the cake had gone, putting mum in the difficult position of choosing either her parents or her husband. She chose Fred.

A young inexperienced pair set out on life's matrimonial highway determined to prove that they would survive despite having very little money, nowhere to live and a baby on the way.
 After ten years of living in many mouse infested rooms we finally qualified for a council flat...
And in the spring of 1966 mum dad and myself moved into our first proper home..... a fourth floor flat in Durban House on the White City Estate supplied by the council it was small and old but clean and wonderful and we loved it.
There was a nearby park, football stadium. greyhound track and glorious Shepherd's Bush market where incidentally mum and me started the Handbag thing....

Dad was working, mum wore a pinny and cooked mince and onions and Christmasses were filled with pies and presents and love and youthful energy. I was a happy nipper.

Then mum's dad died suddenly at 59 and she went bonkers. Asthma set in, dad lost his job and we left the old block of brown and red bricks for brand new flat in a grey stone and glass block.
Mum was never the same again. Almost from day one she regretted it, she never made friends, I made a few, dad was working again and life carried on.

To supplement dad's meagre wages mum worked and worked hard. Getting up early coming home late but oh boy she looked terrific. Blonde curly hair, never ending legs and stunningly beautiful blue eyes. Dad liked what he saw and showed it often to the annoyance of mum who by nature was shy. She didn't do displays of affection, some would call her cold I called her mum.

We were often in cahoots over things. Like me bunking off school, like me not going to work, like me wanting to stay home and clean every room and make dinner. Even then I showed love of domesticity which in my later years would prove my saviour.
At any rate she never let dad know I didn't go to school that day.

On those fun occasions when I skipped school I had the temerity to sit on a wall near the dry cleaners shop where she worked and wait patiently for her. Then along she'd wriggle in a 1969 short skirt, hair gleaming with gold and big bag swinging from her arm.
"What are you doing here?" she'd ask
I grinned like the ugly oily 13 year old I was saying that I hated being bullied and that I want to be with you instead.
It ALWAYS worked.
And after a thorough telling off on the way to the bus stop we'd arrive at my nans place (they had made up by then) where we'd eat chips with vinegar and read the Woman's Own. I'd often be asked to skim  the scum off nanny's beef stew and got 6d for doing so. Nan had given up the fight. After Ted, her husband died, she gave up on life.preferring to sit and stare and complain continually about my mum. Her skirts were too short, she worked too much, and why was she stilll with my dad. Water off a ducks back to mum. She didn't allow the ramblings of an embittered mother ruin the good little life she had with dad and me.
Thankfully we never stayed long our visits usually being once a week, enough for mum and enough for me.

Mum had many jobs but the job she loved most was being a cashier in a betting shop. Man, did she and could she hold her own amongst those rowdy gamblers. I mean she was never fazed. And I know how difficult working in a bookmakers could be because in my later years I too worked in one.I didn't handle money though, I did the board. And I have my daddy to thank for that. He was working there and they needed a boardperson straight away and so I was enrolled.
19 years old. Unafraid. After all I was TOLD I could do it by my parents. And whatever they said I believed. "Hey you go walk on those hot coals, I promise it won't hurt"
And it didn't.

Mum's life carried on with all the va va voom of a woman who bent the knee to nobody. Although I could never understand her offishness with strangers, I  mean she hated everyone, I always respected her no-nonsense attitude.. She didn't concern herself with what nosey neighbours thought. She was clearly her own woman.
It wasn't all easy though, I'd be lying if I said otherwise. There were times especially during the 1990's when even my famous patience started to run out. It was when she had emotional problems and need to go the hospital, I always went with her, and on the one occasion I wanted to go home straight afterwards she made a cutting remark that floored me.
I don't know why she wished I'd never been born or why, during the last years of her life she felt she had no-one to talk to.
What more could I do to prove that I loved her?
I'd given her my home and love. I sacrificed my marriage. I made myself ill making her well.
Yet she still said she had no-one.
Life and families and love. A troublesome three. And when joined together sometimes make for an un-holy trinity.

I sorted out her draw yesterday coming across her favourite headscarf. I held it to my nose and breathed in her scent. What did I feel?
I felt sad.
The funeral last Friday was mercifully quick, her wicker coffin simple exquisite and as I peered through the slats I saw her head covered by the shroud. All I said was "Sorry I couldn't save you"
We didn't always see eye to eye but.........
I knew she would have done the same for me.

With red and pink roses from my garden and bunches of Gypsophila and yellow roses from the florist on the hill, mum's floral kisses are ready to be laid..
Tomorrow.

Heaven knows what I'll do when I see her again.
I know what I'm going to say though as my hands touch her wicker basket coffin..

"When I was a child I couldn't have had a nicer mummy. When I grew to be a woman I couldn't have had a better friend"

Thoughts

I'll be picking flowers from the garden today to lay on mum's wicker basket tomorrow.
Other than that I won't know what to do.
I've never known tiredness like this.
Shock and grief for sure.

Mum died yesterday.
My heart is broken.
 

Cameron's Night of The Long Knives and My All Over The Place Musings.

Man hath no greater love than to lay down his friend for his life.
So did Prime Minister David Cameron in yesterday's cabinet reshuffle. Shoving to one side his cabinet buddy and Education Secretary Mr Michael Gove in favour of  41 year old brunette Nicky Morgan who breezed into 10 Downing Street wearing a very short jacket. Hmmm. She looked over the moon.
Also given their marching orders were William Hague, foreign secretary, who, from now on, will be waving the whip at unruly backbenchers.
Making an ill advised fashion statement was one time tv presenter Esther McVey arriving at Number Ten in a thigh flashing dress. Oops. According to the Daily Mail an outfit unbecoming of a newly appointed cabinet member.
Others ladies strutting along were Priti Patel in a jacket ten times too big for her, Liz Truss (one to watch) clad in bright pink and cobalt blue. Oh dear.
And promoted to Welsh Secretary the hirsute Stephen Crabbe. Pundits were quick to point out that it's been donkey's years since a bearded man walked into Downing Strret. I fear for his growth.
Losing her job as government whip is Claire Perry, Ms Perry is now junior transport minister.
There ooodles more I could blog about but life is short, life is fleeting and I do have other tasks to attend to. So on that flippant note I'll say cheerio.

P.S.
I'm hoping, that by midday mum will be dressed and able to come with me to Two Ducks where she'll be fussed over and fed by Mr Hairy Suit and myself. And, as it's another summer sizzler, we'll be eating a picnic lunch outside.
Looking at mum just now I feel it will be just Hairy and myself.

Earlier today mum held my hand when I sat on the bed, she looked far away, her gentle stroking of my rheumatic hand had me speechless. Mum, you see, doesn't do holding hands. I hope that whatever transpires this afternoon mum will feel a little good.

Now you know where I get the posing thing from...

Mum in about 1982.

Another Day

Last night mum acted strangely.
She insisted she get out of bed and come to bed with me. "No dear" I said "You stay in your bed and I'll go to mine"
This morning was no better in fact it was worse.
I fear that mum, due to whatever is going on in her body, is losing her grip on reality.
She was speaking to my dad again. Very gently, very sweetly.
She told him to get up.
And as i offered her a cup of tea she said she'd be going downstairs to the kitchen.

After watching and listening to her I made some porridge but she couldn't hold the spoon and spent five minutes eating the porridge with her fingers. I took over because Icouldn't bare to see her struggling so gradually the porridge went spoonful by spoonful.
I never thought it would come to this.

Strangely enough alongside the wayward and disturbing actions comes serenity, a gift I've rarely seen.
She's not caustic or argumentative, difficult or demanding, a more delicate bloom has flowered.
What's going to happen next I have no idea.
I'm expecting a resurgence of defiance and bloody-mindedness...Or is that wishful thinking.

I've read the papers and watched News24 now I'm going to make some fairy cakes.I don't think mum will be asking to go anywhere soon.

Two Little Ducks. The kitchen.

Two Ducks. Number 22. The sporty number was only visiting.

T'other side of kitchen.

Fifty paces away. The River Crouch. Very Dickensian. I immediately thought of Great Expectations. Marshes and all that.

Follow the path eventually arriving at the Marine Bar. A raw setting for such a nice cup of tea,

Mr Hairy Suit. The brains behind Two Little Ducks. I supplied the mug.