Women's issues, mince and general madness

English Madeleines with half an apple cake in the background...

Before I do what needs doing outside I'll do what needs doing inside...Posting a pic of last night's Madeleines.

Pencilled in my diary for today :-)

breadmaking. my last one being the best of the lot, fluffy and white inside, outside unevenly brown with a farmer's hands texture.

cleaning kitchen. a bit. how it gets so messy I've no idea. possibly because I'm multi-tasking and never quite finish the job I set out to do. Looks homely though.

looking again at mother's ridiculous Homes and Garden magazine. £245 for a lampshade. last lampshade I bought was £2. Huge green silky affair for drawing room standard lamp. Could YOU tell the difference?

touching up make-up. middle aged domestics needing constant re-lippying and never ending filling of craters:)

getting ready for weekend. er.... taking mince and half leg of lamb out of freezer.

dusting with icing sugar the big apple cake I made yesterday teatime (made two) , along with the mum's madeleines. have now run out of cake tins. No go to Lakeland plastics for them on account of Lakeland plastics being aimed at the same women who buy ridiculous homes and garden mag. Mother taking to fantasizing about topiary and bone china egg cups.
(no dear, you should be reading up on aids-for-the-frail like magnifying glasses, will-making kits and portapotties)

by the way my tum is a pain. gave me what for last night just as I was plating up Mr H's shepherd's pie. women's dark unused interiors are not a subject for discussing over a plate of steaming mince. I'm 55.

Now I must fly. Be good to get a few things done before madam wants her legs done. hair done. plasters changed. tea cup refilled. woes listened to.

my God my weeds need plucking...

Angela Through a Smudged Looking Glass

I'm in reflective mode and that isn't always a good sign with me.
But I won't stamp on my natural feelings, I'll just go with the flow or rather lose myself in the torrent and see where I wash up!
I'll write about what's going on in this troubled head of mine, I'll get it all laid down in black on white and then laugh at my middle aged ramblings. Being stroppy after 50 is not a pretty sight, I thought I'd seen the last of that when my final pimple burst in 1972. But no, I still get swallowed up with insecurities and fears, still manage to mess up every single thing I lay my gnarled hands on and still manage to piss off those that love me most. And I still get spots as well.
Life's a mean old cow sometimes.

The thing about being a 'writer' is that it gives you a way to express your feelings, a life jacket if you like, even a safety net in which to crawl, my writing buoy has saved me on many occasion, often turning to the blackest ink at two in the morning and the reddest felt tip pen at two in the afternoon.
Yes indeedy, penning it all out is a great relief.

So what calamity has brought me into my untidy office?
I'm not really sure.
Or am I?

It might be the after effects of doing half a days work on Monday, (yes I've got a little job) or it might be my empty heart and capacious mouth that yearn to be filled with tenderness and tongues. Of course it might just be hormones. But since I passed 50 I've felt strangely alive, not for me the signs of inbalance and or madness, I don't want to go trekking in Tibet neither do I want a young lover.
I prefer England and old men.

I'm not witnessing drastic alterations in my body either, in fact my body is almost as good today as it was at thirty. I don't see much decay. Of course my skin looks a bit thinner and my bulbous boobs are heading south but overall I could still pass for a gal much younger than my 52 years. And that's a comfort.
The physical changes that are occurring are something I can deal with and so they are not responsible for my bouts of depression.
So what is?
Could it be the start of the menopause?

Recently I've hungered for more of everything.
I not only want to burn my candle at both ends but I want to chew on it and swallow its hot liquid too, I need to feel the dripping wax scorch my lips.
Poetic huh?
I've felt like I could do things which previously scared me, not for me are afternoon tea dances in safe clothes, I want to drown in gin wearing my ruffled knickers.

Does gentle sweet love have a part to play in this messy pantomine?
Don't know. Don't know anything about love, never felt it, had it given to me in bucketloads by one young man. Now his long standing juvenile love is in the shadows.
Placed there by me.

But I desperately want to dance around dewy flowers with something clasped in my hands and heart, a grown up love.