All change

The District Nurse arrived late, flustering and blustering and with a quick style of speech which left me floundering. I do wish people would remember to listen. Conversations, if well done, go two ways. This Nursie had her agenda and by jolly jingo was intent on keeping to it. Do you know what? I don't think she heard a word I said.
I'd vanished into the woodwork like hunted vermin.

After talking to Mother the nurse photographed mum's weeping splitting sores as I ran my damp hands down my dress in anguish. Such is the awfulness of the situation.
Nurse left as blisteringly quickly as she had arrived leaving mum sad, brutal and bemoaning the NHS and its employees.
Dear Mother.

Waiting in all day for someone to call is tiring.
So.
I filled the day with laundry.

I was intent on more creative pursuits but waiting and caring sometimes dries up the juice so by mid afternoon I was dashed. And as I sat on the two seater sofa which Mr Horsehound had brought in from the conservatory.............
I decided to open a can of corned beef.
And I hate that.
Because cans to me spell one thing.....I've lost my mojo... loss of inspiration, a special spark.

Pictured here is my beautiful secondhand weighing machine. Bought in Hockley on Monday. A real steal at under £5. And unlike my other scales I'll keep this one clean and grease free, clear of all splatterings and sticky fingermarks, astonishingly polished.
I just wish it was being used today.

Making Hay.......updated

As mum sleeps I'm grabbing the chance of some 'me' time.
I'll not be polishing my nails or checking my mail or even sipping tea in a daze instead I'll be doing something much more worthwhile. Housework.

Before I became a carer I was a good housewife. My floors were clean likewise my thoughts and linen but since 2011 washing floors on a regular basis and polishing knick-knacks has been knocked sideways. And my thoughts have grown dark indeed.
Back in the day a perfect day would have been a stay at home day where I did a bit of laundry, made a pie, watched Prime Minister's Questions, looked at the garden now however I count myself lucky if a plate gets washed.
So when a day like today presents itself, a day where we wait for the District Nurse to call, I get up extra early to make hay while the sun shines.
Already I've hoovered, cleaned up the kitchen counters, put away books and pens and bags and sock and yellow dusters and other domestic detritus and it feels wonderful. Wonderful to be orderly again.

On the kitchen tv BBC News telling me about Scotland's independence issues, the possible intake of Syrian refugess (God help them) the ongoing search and possible conclusion to the tale of missing tot Madeleine McCain and England's Ladies cricket team. All good stuff and much appreciated by a news lover like myself.

I can hear the washing machine chubbling and Monty hissing at the vacuum cleaner, stupid boy, and I'm dressed in black white and grey but feeling raunchy red. I love it when I can get on with domestic stuff, make a house into a home but it's been oh so difficult for such a long while.
And that's why when I get the chance I really let myself go!
A rusty mop is leaning ever so lazily against the door frame waiting to be picked up.
Hang on in there baby.....I'm coming...........


For our tea tonight:

Sausages Braised in Cider with mashed potatoes, peas and mushrooms.

Fry till well browned 500g pork sausages or whatever your favourite sausage is.

Remove to a plate while you fry quartered onions ( I used four small ones ) and three thick chopped rashers of bacon. Toss them around for about five minutes till the onions go brown.
 Then......
Add a little plain flour to soak up the juices then 300ml of cider, I used Stella Artois Cidre. A gift from Mr Horsehound...
Stir till thickened then add a teaspoonful of dried Thyme or some fresh if you have it and five or fewer  cloves of garlic well chopped. Squiggle it all about.
Season.
Pour into a casserole, lid it. Braise in a medium oven for quite a time. I like 90 minutes.

I'll serve the sausages on top of buttery mash with lightly fried mushrooms mixed with peas. No need for any gravy there should be sufficient sauce left to dampen the snorkers but if not make up a quick gravy.

Haven't made my mind up about pudding. Probably plump for canned fruit and custard with some Drop Scones (very much like small thick pancakes ) . I'm zonked after domesticity overload.

Mum saw the nurse. All ok. Creams rubbed in and dressings bravely stuck on. Mum though tut tutted loudly because Nursie wasn't alone she'd brought a learner with her, a tall Nigerian lad. 
Bubbly happy blonde Sandra will be calling again on Friday. With Big Tom. Lol!

Now I must fly, Mr Hairy Suit is battling the tea time traffic in order to get here on time to watch The Chase with the very funny actor / quizmaster Mr Bradley Walsh.

Bradders sometimes loses it....

After a gruelling two hour session with the eye doctor yesterday mum was raw and out of sorts both physically and mentally. So, although pained, I accepted her "go aways" and went and sat in the kitchen with Mr Hairy Suit.
I couldn't though relax so I went back and sat at mum's feet. Her face was distorted her eye weeping and her manner offish but I persevered with tenderness. For once love took over from anger and I couldn't do anything but feel for her.

However long my tether is I think I reached it tonight.

Put simply..... I've run out of life affirming ideas to put forward to mum

She simply will not have any of it. She sits and stares and sits and hates. I've concluded that any life affirming conversations are pointless.

Won't do anything I suggest or anything anyone else suggests, she even tut tutted when the District Nurse, who I called on account of mum being seriously uncomfortable, suggested that the bed sores won't improve unless mum moves around more. You'd have thought the nurse was monstrous. To mum though she was. Anything sensible suggested is met with derision.
Mother lives in a vile bubble of emotional pus brought on by grief, terminal cancer and loss of everything dear to her. I'm here but I might as well be invisible. My tongue should stay firmly between my lips.
Ever since she's lived with us we've all tried to make life as comfortable as possible. We've been tender. Even when she's scolded us, me in particular, we've hung onto the idea that one day she'll see sense, waken to the idea that continuing to cling to the idea of good health and solo living is plain barmy. For her own safety she needs to stay here in the front room with all her gear around her and with me and Mr Horsehound on tap.

After another evening of fruitless discussion she's in the front room tired, solemn and icily bitter and I'm here in Mr H's dusty crowded office, tearfully exhausted.
How will I deal with tomorrow?

I've felt unusually cheerful today not even the drop in temperature and mother's insistence on another shopping spree could darken my lightness.
And so, with the wind in our faces and a letter about library fines in my bag we stormed Rochford Square.
Not many folk about.
Oh goody I thought. Not so many ankles to bruise or faces to face as I push mum around in her heavy chair.
As I pleaded innocent on all counts (not being aware the Tom Clancy book was two months overdue) the lovely black haired library assistant dismissed the threatening letter as an oversight and I'm not to worry about it lovey. Phew! And before my words of thankfulness reached her over earringed ears mum and me were outta there.

We stopped off at The Havens Hospice charity shop, a few minutes walk from the library, and found therein a tube of Boots Royal Jelly Hand cream (20p.) Unwanted Christmas present I expect. That's cool. It'll be perfect for inclusion in my oversized handbag.
Also bagged was another tube...This time Dove Intensive Conditioner for weak hair. What? Why I buy that? My hair is silky and good, bit raggedy and uneven but certainly not in need of intensive therapy. But at only 30p I couldn't let it lay there by a basket of perm curlers gathering dust.
I love finding gems.
Talking of gems look at this

                                                               Happy Red Cheesecake


I went ethical yesterday and made a whole load of Indian inspired Vegetarian food. Not wishing to be too saintly I also made this Strawberry Cheesecake.
I felt good yesterday and it showed in my choices.
Firstly I dropped Mr Horsehound off at the dentists (root canal) I didn't want him to have to do the train on account of it being his day orf so I wanted to treat him to something nice. Secondly I decided to revert to doing the Sainsburys run. Mum was with me but I abandoned her by the nice wooden bench at the far end of the store where the trolleys are left while I dreamily roamed the aisles filling my little trolley.
Thirdly I'd invited Hairy Suit to come for tea. He's a lovely man/boy/confidante/mover of extreme furniture and holder of innovative ideas. He also shares my love of high end nosh.
I'd also plumped for a non-meat dinner which always fills me with a kind of clean gladness. There is something especially pleasing about making delicious meals with earthy wholesome non sparkling mud loving ingredients.

On the menu:

Chick Pea and Potato Pasties.
The pastry was made using Brown Bread Flour instead of the usual shortcrust. It was rested and then rolled into medium sized circles then filled with chick peas, onion, potatoes then lavishly flavoured with cumin seeds and coriander.

Vegetable Dhal
Red lentils braised in water with potato, tomatoes, chestnut mushrooms, carrot, onion, green pepper. Spices used were ginger, chilli, cumin, coriander, pepper, turmeric, garlic and the usual salt and black pepper.


Simple Rice

Long grain rice (not easy - cook) simmered in turmeric infused water, then left to dry orf.
A dozen mini Onion Bhajis (shop bought)
And Garlic and Coriander Pittas (shop bought)

All served with Greek Yoghurt and a spiced fruit Chutney from Morrisons.
It tasted wonderful and we weren't fussed about having a meatless day.

I would though have been very disappointed if I'd left out Pudding.
So a quick to assemble Cheesecake was the order of the day.
Effortless. Fabulous and Utterly Gone. Even  mum wanted some. And her being diabetic and all.

Small carton of double cream electrically mixed with small carton of Greek yoghurt mixed and a little sugar and 225 g of full fat cream cheese. Treat well. Then tip carefully into biscuit lined tin ( I used a third of a packet of ordinary basic cheap Digestive biscuits crumbed and mixed with a little melted butter and soft brown sugar). Leave in fridge to set then go bonkers with fruit. From abroad foreign Strawberries sliced then glazed with slightly melted diabetic strawberry jam. Don't overdo the melting otherwise it goes all runny and bloodlike.

How Grey The Day...updated

So, methinks, more red lipstick and a Shepherd's Pie

Poirot is about to solve another crime (with Mother closely watching) and I'm about to make a Coffee and Walnut Cake.
So there.

Colour on a Foggy Day...updated

'Buttermilk' it said on the Dulux tin and a gentler more dreamy colour I'm sure doesn't exist..., well not in a tin anyway.
It looks smashing on my kitchen walls.
And with new green gingham seat pads and green gingham cotton pelmet my kitchen has taken a leap into the countryside.
But what really sets my heart a-flutter is the sweetest, humblest green gingham wipe-clean waterproof polyurethane PVC tablecloth.



I made a red lentil bolognaise, yellow cheddar cheese scone with orange cayenne pepper and a very white cook- in- the saucepan rice pudding yesterday.
Today's offerings are baked Cumberland sausage and hills of featherlight mash and green beans chased by yellow pineapple upside down cake.



Just taken a dozen Coburg Buns out of the oven.
Coburg Buns. 
Small sponge cakes flavoured with cinnamon, ginger, mixed spice (apple pie spice) and golden syrup. Topped or should I say bottomed with flaked almonds. The nuts, you see, are put into the greased fluted bun tin first then topped with the cake mix. All very quaint. These little fellas don't stay fresh for long so are best eaten straight away..
In between checking on an increasingly crotchety mum and ironing I made a simple flour dusted loaf. 
I felt the need to get stuck in. 
Nibbled on dried apricots to keep going.

Talking of keeping going.
I needed to on Sunday evening after getting a real verbal bashing from mother. So vitriolic was it I felt nauseous in my pleasant kitchen. Mr Horsehound and Mr Hairy Suit were witnesses and even these men of the world were taken aback by the unnecessary outburst.
Later that night, as I tried to sleep, I wondered where her strength came from and wouldn't it be wiser if my dear old bean employed it in a more fruitful way.

On Monday morning as we sat together drinking our early morning tea, she apologised. 
"Draw a line under it" she said. 
And I did.
I try to understand. 
I do.
It's the frustration of failing eyesight, resentment at having to live here with me and my male entourage and, if that isn't sickening enough, she winces with pain fairly regularly. So it's no wonder her tongue lashes out in my direction. 
In my kinder, more mature moments, I say ok mum, let rip.
She never lets me down.




 

Gently gently

On hearing mum's sobbing I gently went in.
And after gently talking with her we decided to postpone her day out.
Sometimes it's harrowing not knowing what to do, but as I sat on her bed we both knew that spending time in her flat might prove pointless, painful. Mum asked me what we should do and my reply was jumped upon...
So I'm left with a vacant day. But not for long. I've employed Hairy Suit and Mr Horsehound to decorate the kitchen.
I hate waste.
I will though be on hand to lend a hand. Tea and custard tarts, that sort of thing.

This afternoon though the boys will have to do without me and mum as we'll be engrossed in watching Ricky Walden play Ronnie O'Sullivan...

                                                                 Gentle Mr Walden

                                                                Oh God, O'Sullivan

Updated throughout the day......

The kitchen is cold.
So you can imagine my joy when, on reading the tea leaves in mum's dainty cup, I saw a lovely happy little face.
You see Mr Horsehound, Hairy Suit and myself are taking mum to London tomorrow.
No wonder she's smiling.

On the this afternoon's to-do list:
Beef Casserole ( for tomorrow)
Red Lentil Bolognaise (tonight's wholesome fare)
A dozen Custard Tarts ( for mum )
Using almond sweet pastry filled with a 7 egg yolks, full fat milk, nutmeg topped custard. Recipe by Paul Hollywood.

Better get on with it...

I'll never make Custard Tarts again.
I won't blame the ingredients or the kitchen heat or my tiredness it was simply a matter of attempting too much. The Lentil Bolog is looking good and we'll find out how it sits on the tongue in a very short while and  the Beef Casserole is still cooking. But oh those Tarts.
Firstly the pastry fell apart as I rolled it, correction...tried to roll it then horror of all horrors as I filled the last tart with the warm egg custard I saw, a whole heap of sugar...Which should of course been used to sweeten the 7 yolk custard.
So as I knelt at the Oven Of Disaster I had an idea... I'd carefully spoon teaspoons of sugar into the cases and return to them to bake.
Blah blah....30 mins later they looked kinda cooked so I left them to cool.......
Oh goody I thought..they seem to be ok, the aroma was divine, the colour enticing all I had to do was lift them from the muffin tin.............
The first one collapsed into a million gooey bits.... I'd forgotten to grease the tin. It came out in sticky sweet pieces but it tasted gorgeous so....I will, after I recover from the shock nay disbelief of making a cock-up on the cooking front, attempt to excavate the remaining little buggers.....
Watch this space................

I've been staring into the tin of tarts and given up. For tonight at least. I have neither the will or strength to grapple with them I will though get at 'em in the morning...

So I'm orf now to bed with my handbag and eye gel... And........ sitting up in bed I'll watch Mark Selby.

I will be updating this post throughout the day...

The sky is bleak blue but there isn't any wind so our trek into Rochford should  be a breeze.

The white haired butcher proffered three thick shiny slices of lamb's liver for my perusal.
 I nodded then pointed to his tray of moist rashers of bacon. "Three please" I said, my red lipped smile evolving effortlessly. With speedy red hand elegance they were bagged.
"£1.99" said white hair man.
Popping a big coin onto the glass counter I told him to pot the penny in the charity collection tin.
Meanwhile outside, under the blue and white stripy canopy, Mother braved the cool air peering solidly through the butcher's window....

Aussie Neil Robertson dug in as champions do to take today's match away from Irishman Mark Allen . Even though Robertson, the World number one, played some disastrous shots I still believed, from the comfort of my settee, that class and skill would prevail. The commentators were yammering on about his missed shots so I said to the telly, "only mediocre people are good ALL the time".
Only gifted folk give one a scare.


 This afternoon...
Hairy Suit and I discussed a lot. Mostly holidays. I like that.
Other things I like are being inventive with pork chops.

400g bread flour 4 eggs and a drop of olive oil...and what do you get? Curtains of Linguine! And to accompany the strands of perfect pasta, a pan of gorgeous meatballs....

.......I must just have a quick word.......

And that word is...

Linguine.

Instead of opening a packet I made my own Linguine.
Pictures of the aforementioned lanky stuff will appear here soon.

Could Be Poetry

A morning out alone.
Just tripping to the supermarket.
Just me in the car doing 50 with 5 jute bags.
I love Morrisons.
Never realising how good it feels doing plain nothing things.

Then lunch
Spitting fresh lamb's liver darkening in the pan
with curling bacon and tawny onions, its mates
canned potatoes boiling their bald heads off
and plain common baked beans plopped out and nuked
Then, for afters,  strong tea and gingernuts
lifelong favourites

With sustenance, warmth, came drowsiness
with that, restless legs
flung out
lurching kicking
falling lids, shallow breath
I was amiable though, readily able to act
and, as mother dribbled,
I could have made love

Where to start...

Sunday's are sacred.
A day where only the very most urgent of mother related tasks are done. Like getting her heart re-started.
A day where I get to slouch around in my dressing gown.
But last Sunday was different.
I, and Mr Hairy Suit burned rubber on a trip to Currys.
WHAT?
Oh yes. As Mr Hairy and I sipped our much needed early morning cuppa (he frequents the bungalow willy nilly) I bleated on about being a frustrated Domestic Goddess on account of having to do me laundry in a bucket.
I'd had enough I said and no sooner had I said it we were on our way to pick up a Hotpoint Washing Machine from Currys in Southend.
.... Because.....As the tea leaves patterned the bottom on me tea cup I'd shaken out me hidden money tin and packed a fair whack of dosh in me purse. God I was determined to put an end to forests of clothes and household linens turning me into a slimline slave.

Anyway the staff at Currys were totally amazing. And within two hours I had an Indesit Tumble dryer and the aforementioned Hotpoint Washing Machine. Getting them home was done in two journeys of course, Hairy has many cars but not even his fleet of spectacular classic motors could accommodate two kitchen essentials like what we'd bought. By the way the Dryer was Hairy's idea so he had to buy it.

And so as Mother and I gabbled on about having laundry mornings with tea and murder mysteries the men, (Hairy and Mr Horsehound) set about getting me plumbed in.

And my dears, I haven't looked back.

It's wonderful being able to do a full load on a Monday, even leaving it bubbling whilst mum and I do the Post Office run.
It's fabulous having heaps of perfectly dried clobber sitting on a chair and more gorgeous knowing that Mr Horsehound's dressing gown will be free from bacterial life.
And even more profound is knowing I finally had the sense to treat myself to something worthwhile.
I couldn't though have accomplished such a feat without assistance from Mr Hairy Suit and for that I'm forever grateful
Baby.

"Fool," said my Muse to me "look in thy heart and write"

I've had stormier days, I've had calmer days, but as stay-at-home-days go this one has been fruitful.

I've made, you see, a decision.
And I'm not good at making decisions. But there comes a time when you either choose life in all its colour or allow all the bad stuff to fester and in so doing wreck whatever chance of happiness might float your way.
I choose the former.

After numerous emotional hammerings I've decided on a new course of action regarding life with Mother.
I need, I have to, do a Charlotte Vale.
Older readers might know who she is, to those who don't watch old movies let me enlighten you.
Vale was the main character in the movie 'Now, Voyager' played to the hilt by screen queen Bette Davis. In  a nutshell, Charlotte is denied a life of her own by her embittered old mother so languishes in her room smoking and wearing lipstick until a kindly doctor whisks her away to a hospital where she sheds weight and spectacle and becomes the elegant confident Ms Vale much to the chagrin of her tyrannical Mother.

I'm not saying my mum is a monster, no not at all, but she has a way of verbally crushing me till I'm almost afraid to speak. I'm so tired of it. I've left the room after such a battering and felt nauseous and hot and smashed favourite tea plates. That is not a good place to be.

So tomorrow and all the other tomorrows I'm going to stand my ground, defy her, show her that I'm not a thirteen year old with spots and insecurities and no friends. I am a nice woman who's loved and wanted and who is gregarious like her father.
I'm not a solitary human who loathes mankind and the man on the fish counter, I'll talk to anyone whatever their job or sexual preferences. Mother thinks my life is disgusting. I know because she told me.
I like to dance the cha cha in my bare feet and have people around for chats and cake. I don't want to live in a souless airless cave. That isn't my idea of life.
If the boot was on the other foot, if I was ill, I like to think I'd go crazy for life and have about me kind and caring people, people who'd wash my feet and get mildly drunk with me.
To cut people out is to go deaf dumb and blind.



I will continue to take care of her every need but I'm not tiptoeing around any more, these blasted egg shells are a pain...