Hairy bought me two washing up brushes.
I bought myself some Dream Matte Mousse foundation.
Over on my food blog I've rattled on about what we'll all be eating tonight. That is, when Mr Horsehound gets in. Being sent crazy by another tube strike.
Bob Crowe. Who needs him?

The snooker has been fantastic today.
Urban spaceman Dominic Dale is making a tremendous comeback against sour face Bazza Hawkins. It's 12 12 as I write. Come on Dominic, you adorable fruitcake.
England's Trump and Australia's Robertson are giving each other the pip. My money is on the thunder from down under.
No worries.

Must dash....Got to see if Dale wins!

Four Eyes is better than no eyes. UPDATED

As my glasses are now impossible to wear I'm chomping at the bit to get to my lunchtime appointment at an opticians in Rayleigh. Never been to this shop but I've been reliably informed it's ok.
I'm being seen by a Mrs Juniper. What a lovely name. I'm feeling happier already.
By the way, mums eating a lot of boiled eggs.

Oh my!
What a delightful day.
Eyes tested by the delightful Mrs Juniper. A very easy lady to talk with, made me feel very at ease, so at ease in fact that we could barely part.
I know a lot about her family and she knows a lot about mine.
Felt good not being rushed, not feeling as if I was one of the herd, like in Specsavers. After the test I had the undivided attention of a man in a suit. And you know how much I dig that.
But after such an exhausting test and chinwag  with Ms Juniper I decided I needed to take some air before committing to a frame, so orf Hairy and myself went.
A cuppa was the order of the day. Along with a buttered crumpet.
Then back to Rayleigh Vision Centre...
After an hour or so I finally plumped for a pair of tortoiseshell Anna Sui.
It was love at first sight. Whether or not they completely suit my face, character, colouring or finances I knew they were the specs for me.
I must have tried on twenty pairs, all very nice, all very suitable, but the Anna Sui pair with a small beige rose on either arm, sung their arty lungs out.
And so, hopefully, within a few days, they will be my new face furniture.

Change As Good As A Rest

Didn't do our usual Hockley run.
Mum way too out of sorts so mum stayed on her Bed of Crumbs. But, for me, a leisurely stroll up the hill to the post office, chemist and newsagents.
Felt odd being out without mum but in a weird sickly way felt supremely blissful too.
I took in all the flowers and hedges and painted houses, I sucked in the warm air and car fumes and stopped now and again.

Seeing as I broke my glasses yesterday it's a wonder I got there at all. Right arm snapped off. Tried sticking it together but that was a rubbish idea. So on the phone to optician.


Other Things I've Done.

Sewing and cleaning.
Made a pelmet. Badly.
Cleaned up like a pro.

Been a tonic to mum by giving her a jolly good gentle talking to.She's depressed about everything, Unable now to wash or go to the bathroom alone. I'm required at all levels. A state of affairs she's always dreaded.
As she fell onto the bed after trying to wash her hands I felt an overwhelming desire to hold her tightly telling her how much I like and admire her and that we will get through this awful thing and come out more alive than ever before.
But I held off on account of never having done it before.Never been a huggy huggy family and so to go from being quite formal to overdosing on luvviness seemed almost impossible. But I did sandwich her hands between mine.

Anyway she knows how I feel
I show her everyday.




Sausages tonight.

Columbia O'Rourke And Her Lost Love

Columbia O'Rourke
thin as paper lantern
dry unblinking eyes of tankard grey
sits, lays, wanders
untying, smelling notes 
of Great Love
her hair her hair yellow as yolk hangs unwashed, nooselike
and scruffy sable brows sadly hoisted
by remembrance


Angela

All Action.

Well for some of us at least. (Hairy and me cooking, shopping, gardening)
Mother insists on slouching on the bed surrounded by newspapers, screwed tissues, stray painkillers and crumbs.

A full on snooker fest will have us, that's the ever present Hairy Suit and me slumped on the sofa this afternoon. And while watching evil O'Sullivan I'm hoping to see an improvement in little old mum. Now THAT would be a good result.
Oh well she might be immobile but at least she's breathing.
I've got spicy chicken wraps for lunch.

Updated

Mum is being silly.
By refusing to pay the rent on her flat. This came about on Tuesday when in a pale sick rage she told me she wasn't doing it.
'Oh no' I thought as I collected her pension I now have one more thing to be concerned about. The letter from the council will surely drop on the mat and it'll be down to me to deal with it.
Am I being a beast?
To put a stop to this worry I secretly paid her rent via a loan from Hairy Suit who will be reimbursed today via my carer's allowance.
Mother's tacky tentacles stretch ever more into my life. Around my heart. I'm wondering how much more empathy is left.
She's my responsibility yet when it comes up in general conversation she barks that she is capable of running her life, her finances. No dear, not any more.
What happens next Monday when her rent is due again I dread to think.

But today it's sunny and nicely warm so we're off to finger flick the rails in charity shops in Southend.
Hairy Suit playing chauffeur.
But me, I'm holding onto my pennies.
Mum can do whatever she likes. She usually does.


Mum took to the bed and has stayed there all day. So it was with a heavy heart Hairy and myself set off to the seaside in search of bargains.

After a look in Oxfam we meandered our way past a couple of singing inebriated guys to set foot in the YMCA shop (next to the dentist) and I'm so glad we did.
Because within its badly decorated space I found two fab bags. One of dubious plasticity for mum and one  vintage rose coloured leather beauty. Simply stunning. Old and a bit faded. But mouthwateringly handsome all the same. And at just £2.99 both Hairy Suit and I were happy little shoppers.

Back home to a sleeping mummy where even the whiff of a McDonald's hamburger didn't excite her. But as Hairy and myself drank our tea watching some great snooker mum gently handled her new bag and nibbled on a Morrisons custard tart.

Oh, in the YMCA shop I also picked up a big fat brown faux leather notebook/diary/shopping list book. A kind of poor mans Filofax Originally from Smiths and in spankingly good condition, a real steal at £2.99. And as Mark Selby potted effortlessly and Ali Carter grimaced I jotted down a few lines of too infrequent verse...

Publish tomorrow. 

Now back into the front room to eventually watch but immediately listen to O'Sullivan beating up gentleman Joe Perry.
Listening to on account of having my back to the screen as I wash Mother's sores.

The current catastrophe at Man Utd reminds me of when, in the 1970's, Brian Clough took over as manager of Leeds FC.
The players weren't happy so they wouldn't play for him. Consequently the once unbeatable Leeds went rapidly down the pan. And Clough was sacked after 44 days.
But Cloughie went on to bigger shinier things like managing Nottingham Forest ...1975 - 1993. We'll forget about his 8 month stint looking after little Brighton and Hove Albion. Even greatness has its off days. It was with Nottingham Forest that he gained godlike status.



Regarding Moyes......After hearing what commentators have been saying I concur. IN that there was a lot of sulking and swearing in the dressing rooms which led over paid over cossetted players throwing tantrums on account of new boy Moyes doing things differently.
Rats to that they said........ and so the search begins for a replacement...



I see Chelsea drew last night...

Easy Easter

After yesterday's big bake-off (details on Gloria's Table) I couldn't do much today so I settled down on the sofa with Monty and watched the snooker on BBC 2. Mum was listening from the other side of the room in her bed.

I'm hoping my favourite player Mark Selby manages to put sunlight between himself and the ever so annoying  Michael White. Selby began well but the pugnacious choirboy Mikey Whitey clawed back to within one frame of the Jester from Leicester.
We'll see...

Old timer Ken Doherty surprise all by cruising through to round two as did Ronnie O'Sullivan my least favourite player.
We, that's mum me and several million after snooker nutters will have to wait another two Mondays before we find out who'll lift the cup and dance away with around £300,000.


I haven't cooked much today, just braised gammon and veggies for our tea and for pud, squares of yesterday's gingercake nuked and covered with custard.
I love cooking but even wild women like what I am need a rest.

Yesterday was fun.
Hairy Suit, his mum and dad, Mr Horsehound and myself tucked into a lovely English Tea. Mother though wasn't well enough to join in, so the five of us sat squeezed into the kitchen while mum lay on her bed with a tea tray.
It's hard knowing what to do when I want to bring people over for supper, dinner, anything, mum doesn't like it and she lets me know.
But I've grown a thicker skin over the past three years and now manage to withstand her onslaughts. Yes, Sunday was successful.

Mum is being very quiet, often staying on top of her bed day after day, but we, thats Mr Horsehound, Mr Hairy and myself all slap on our cheery faces as we clean, goof and garden.

Tomorrow it's back to normal.
Will do the Hockley run then tune in to watch more snooker from Sheffield.

Now I must fly......:)

Updated

Mum's resolve is legendary but she's just being silly now.
As pale and weak as wet paper she's still determined to hit the high street.
So in half an hour or so we'll go out and mingle with the people.
I'll push her in the wheelchair as she gazes half blindly at shelves.
It's labour of love.
And as we slice off people's toes who are too stupid or pig headed not to move to one side my heart rate will soar. Mother will remain royally seated.
Sorry and excuse me being the extent of my communication with the folk of Southend on Sea.
I loathe the smug able bodied.

But we'll trot on picking up a bargain or two. And return to the bungalow hot and tired.







I'd rather stay home.

At 11 am we each bought a handbag of varying levels of ghastliness. Mum's being a Primark pale pink with tassles, mine being a Primark copy of a 1972 boho mock leather shoulder bag complete with etched patterns.
By 11:30 we were queuing at Customer Service for a refund.

It wasn't all pointless though. I did have fun in Poundland where shelves of baking equipment promoted by Jane Asher got my juices going.
I plumped for an icing bag with three nozzles, a set of cookie cutters and a baking book which contains the usual variety of tried and tested recipes with one exception...tres leches cake. I must admit to never having heard of it. Apparently, according to Jane Asher it has been popular in Texas for many years AND because of its consistency, more of a pudding than cake. Right up my street.
I HAD to have it.
And so, with mum carrying a basket of baking tools, yellow rubber gloves, hair conditioner, jasmine scented fabric conditioner, lavender air freshener, bag of Bombay mix and 6 pink bed friendly curlers we lined up with the rest of the pre-Easter shoppers.
I was ok, but mum was wilting. Wilting like a the head of a once bright sun filled daffodil. Her chin almost on her chest, her floppy hair trailing along her collar and her vein patterned hands clasped together. In Prayer perhaps.......................................
"I'm not religious" she told me this morning over our cornflakes "But I prayed to God that I could get to the  bathroom"
"And did you?"
"Yes"
"Well there you are then. When I'm not around you know who to ask"

As we left the busy store I leaned over and whispered "What now?"
"Up to you" she said, eyes not focussing at all.
So we went up in the lift to the roof of the shopping mall.......... and pop music blared out as I carefully dropped mum into her seat, then packed up the wheelchair holding the parking ticket between my teeth.

We didn't talk much on the drive home, speaking only once regarding the amount of cars weaving and dodging and speeding their way to somewheres on this fine warm day.

The inevitable subject of what to eat came up.
"Burger?" I asked
"Up to you" mum gently replied

It was  that kind of morning.
Very calm, gentle, without fuss or heartaches. We're getting used to how much we can and can't do in a morning.
A little bit of fun is better than none at all.

Feeling jolly and very relieved at mum's umpteenth comeback ( she caused a great deal of concern last week) I threw myself into Sunday festivities...

After giving mum a soapy scrub down I set about making dinner ( braised bacon and vegetables) then I cavorted around the garden like a ten year old, re-arranging pots and cats and generally liking life.
Then I got Hairy Suit to check out my bike.
This is the bike my friend Ken got for me ages ago.... A small wheeled 1960's British Racing Green job complete with plastic bag. I've ridden it lots of time but haven't done so lately for these reasons. No time. Dodgy gears and dodgy hips.
But as Hairy pumped the tyres, oiled things and generally spruced it up I envisaged getting back on the old donkey to glide along country roads with nothing but a cold sausage in me pocket.
Yes, I thought, this WILL be grand.

Within a few minutes the bike was roadworthy....
So off I recklessly sped, long dress flying, bare legs looking white and ghastly, but with a joy only 10 year olds know...............only to come a cropper at Victory Road.
Ouch!
As I turned, too quickly as it happens, I went flying through the warm Spring air landing rather ungainly on my left hip.
Within seconds Mr Hairy was at the disaster scene, having been running after me all the way along the road.
And as I disentangled my bleeding legs from the old bicycle I laughed. I had to. I wasn't wearing any underwear. ( warm day, good mood)
And hobbling back indoors I knew that without a doubt it is these very actions that help keep one youthful...And sane.
But oh the gunge that spewed forth from my left knee, proper yuk it was, but as Mr Horsehound dabbed it with well watered down bleach I saw nothing but the funny side of the whole caper.
I needed danger.

Mum had been very poorly that week and had only been out for an hour. I was convinced she was dying, proper. But somehow, she rallied and ate a nice piece of gammon yesterday.

And I went cycling.....


Today we, that's super-mum and myself, are in the car. Off out into he sunlight  on our regular Monday trip to Hockley for a rummage in the reduced bins:)

Older Lady Reaching Out

The other day, I wandered into my back garden, and, feeling a tad overwhelmed by love of mother and never-ending mounting responsibility I slipped off my shoes, raised both my face and arms to the sun and talked to and drunk in William Blake's God.
Blake believed the reason we can't look directly at our star is because it is the face of the Almighty.
Well, I dunno if Billy Boys right or not. All I know is it felt good off loading my fears to the hot ball.

I went out today with a dashing Hairy Suit.
Dolled up or what?
He looked like he was getting married.
I on the other hand looked single and more Boho.
Voluminous red flowered frock, mushroom coloured shoes, black leather jacket and blue nail polish.

We went shopping in Rayleigh. Mostly charity shops. As we're both great tea drinkers and lovers of olde time stuff we stopped for refreshment in Coles, a vintage style tea shoppe. Just orf the High Street.
And as 1940's Big Band tunes made our toes tap we both drunk in a little togetherness.
Being out without mum is unheard of, but she has been unusually shattered this week so has taken to her bed.

So Hairy and myself paraded along the street enjoying a little stupid time.
Putting bowls on our heads and larking around with courgettes.

Then home, via McDonalds to pick up a little meat treat for Mother!

The good Lord moves in mysterious ways. Just when I think all is lost I have a morning out in the sunshine loving and appreciating everything.

I Found Myself

What a relief. It's not good to be lost.

As mum, Mr Horsehound and myself traipsed around Southend High Steet I felt completely and utterly wrong. Wrong clothes mostly.
Knee length dress. Sensible bag. Albeit an excellent one. I had to find Angela.

And so, as if by a miracle...I did.

I am now wearing a long length lime green linen skirt and matching sleeveless top with sequins.
my handbag is more like something Mary Poppins would use.
My hair is up and all over the place.
My jewellry eclectic.

I'm happier already.

I've been feeling a bit grotty. Cough cough cough. Yesterday I felt awful. Didn't, couldn't go out. Mum even sympathised.
But today I managed to keep smiling by preparing lamb hearts for our tea,  and then, after they were snugly bedded down on some root veg, I sat in the cool of the garden.
When I went back into the warm kitchen I felt refreshed. Quite amazing what a little relaxation can do.
I wasn't out there long, but it was long enough to read a few pages of My Weekly and listen to a handful of birds singing and talking. I love bird tittle-tattle more than any other sound. It not only comforts, but has a cleansing effect too. It's as if showers of perfect musical notes rain down.
Which reminds me....Earlier today, as I pottered outside the conservatory I found a small white egg shell. Completely in half with a jagged edge and small patch of sticky yellowy mucous type stuff clinging inside. I held it like it was something special, something out of this world. And to me it was. This half an egg was once home, a delicate crisp sanctuary for fresh new life. And I was in awe.
My eggs of course packed up years ago which I suppose makes the finding of a broken fallen shell all the more potent. Mother Nature, in her wisdom deemed me unfit for Motherhood but instead instilled in me a lot of love for other things.

It's Not All Over Yet,,,updated

Manchester Utd. put on a good show last night managing a draw against Bayern Munich. It was a game full of incident like when Rooney was floored and then, after his assailant was red carded the fine haired Roonmeister was accused of diving. Blasted cheek.
I feel for United's fans they must be wondering what on earth has hit their club. Going from doing no wrong to doing not much at all. Well I blame Ferguson. The all powerful all knowing uber manager who mysteriously hung his coaching cap up leaving his beloved team to flounder like a net of fish.
Ghastly man.
And so in steps David "caught in the headlights" Moyes who, from where I'm sitting, looks bewildered by the whole damn thing. There they are the team everyone and his dog are scared witless of then in the smashing of an ankle are being wondered about. I wonder whats gone wrong. I wonder what Moyes will do next. I wonder whether Ferguson's choice is the right choice. Etc etc..
It's a tough bloody game is football.
I don't know anything about what goes on in the executive rooms at football clubs nor do I know why the board of Man U. agreed to give into Fergies choice of next manager (of what is probably the greatest team on the planet) what I do know is that an era has fizzled out. Sadly and unbecomingly.
Being an optimist I'm hoping that Manchester United will salvage a bit of red greatness by scoring a goal in the second leg...
Once a champion....


Talking of champions...
I can't wait to see the second live televised debate between Messrs. Farage and Clegg. I hear on the grapevine it's going to be vicious, more bloody. Oooooh I do hope so.
Last weeks one was a wee bit blancmangey

Oh Boy!

The warmth of the sun had me and Hairy Suit scurrying down the road to the Co-Op in order to buy salad ingredients.
The usual suspects were brought home.
Lettuce, cu, spring onions, beetroot, salad cream, baby potatoes. I have a tin of red salmon in the cupboard and with a couple of hard boiled eggs our tea tonight is sorted.

Sunshine always does this to me. One ray from the giant star and I ditch meat. But not for long. Because, one day next week, haven't decided which day, come rain or shine, I'm stuffing a couple of lamb's hearts.