Glo in the Snow

What a glorious morning I've had.
First of all took a leisurely drive to Sainsbury's...
Then on the way home skipped into Corals splashing out some serious cash on Dave Chisnall. Took a good price too.
Dave is playing Tony O'Shea this afternoon in the first of the semi finals of the B.D.O. World Darts Championship. I will therefore, after cooking some sausages and eggs, be pinioned to the telly. No checking of emails or responding to any form of interweb messaging nor answering any of my phones.
In other words my soul will be on the oche.

When we came out of Corals, Mr H. with his ever ready camera, took these photos. I have to say I'm wearing well...!!!

With The Snow Comes Silence

I noticed that as I waltzed with my car this morning, I was dancing alone. Admittedly it's a short journey to the castle but nevertheless I thought I'd at least see a trussed up elderly gentlemen dragging his dog. But no, I saw nothing. No children, no mums, not even the postman. The distance between my bungalow and Henry's castle was bleaktown. Totally free of people and cars, in fact it was like someone had taken a Winter nature photo and superimposed it onto the roads and streets. Frost covered houses, distraught overflowing bins, green gardens turned into wonderlands for the out-of-sight birds, patches of black where a car had been parked, and nothing but frozen white immaculate pavements with very few footprints.
The snow had indeed left its almighty mark and silenced everything except for the crunchy crunch of crazed wheels on black ice.

I arrived a touch earlier than usual on account of me wanting to get away a touch earlier. Well that didn't work out at all!
After first looking for the cats I proceeded to make some sausagemeat pasta, put 24 tins of Felix away, and chat with Henry...He wants me to rifle through boxes looking for some of his son's documents. Ok, but the boxes are in the garage which is down the road by the school. I'd do it I said, for a price. We agreed on the pittance and the boxes will be seen to some time in the future. Meanwhile will I put his daughter's clothes in boxes. Oh yes and for free. The fact she'll be out of the way is payment enough. What is it about this family and boxes?
I rather like the idea of the house being a daughter-free zone, it's one less room to do and one less person to agitate the cats. Yes, her clothes will be attended to on Monday.

Blackie and Ging made several appearances during the course of the morning, even jumping up onto the kitchen table when Henry and I were chatting about: Loyalty, money and diseases. They've come a long way since I first made their acquaintance, no more do they diss their master instead they're into violently rubbing themselves up against his legs and chest. And the master is well pleased with their progress. He asked me to put the pink collar back onto Ging and with a tut I did. She was, I'm pleased to report, ok about it, so I was relieved. I had a little treat up my sleave for them today, after preparing Henry and Walt's dinner I called out like an idiot asking Blackie and Ging if they'd like a tin of toony woony.
They licked and scoffed the gold rimmed plate clean, tuna will now be their three times a week treat...

After several pots of tea Henry said he'd love a bacon and broken egg sandwich, so one was made and drooled over. I too had a sandwich, but I plumped for a BLT. By this time I was ready to come home so I squeezed and kissed the cats whispering into their tiny ears that they were to do whatever they wanted never mind about Henry. Ging then fell to the ground and whacked a hanging pink feathered toy whilst Blackie's eyes remained half- closed as I slobbered over his head like a sad old woman who has finally lost her ancient marbles.

Driving home I saw no-one.
The steering wheel going one way and the wheels having other ideas. Horrible. But with the danger came an unearthly silence that only snow brings...




Tonight I'll be cooking a beef cobbler.
Simple food, perfect for a Winter's night.
I might have a drop of brandy in my coffee too!

Witterings As The Snow Falls

Blasted weather!
The only pleasure it brought was seeing two enormous wood pigeons, with their heads down, beating the life out of a piece of bread.

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The snow came again as I drove home from Henry's, who was, I'm pleased to say, up and about within ten minutes of my arrival. But I'm going to leave it at that because posting again about a sad old gentlemen is beginning to give me the right hump.

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As I write this thousands upon thousands of beautifully crafted snowflakes are dashing down from heaven. Their destination? My frontage.
I'm not too concerned about the grass or the shrubs it's the potted baby daffs I'm thinking about, a few have already been stupid enough to stick their necks out of the dirt. Daft daffs. But their Mother will take care of them, she's a wily old girl is Mother Nature, she knows how best to take care of her kids. I imagine that deep within the heart of an adolescent daff lies a core of sweet bloody-mindedness. They know they can survive.

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I feel like eating crackers..

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American Idol starts next week. And it's a show I particularly like on account of the ghastly way they overdo everything. Big hair and big songs. I do like my yanks.

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Talking of televisual treats I can't find much at the moment worth watching, apart that is from the darts on BBC2. But I don't like the presenter, he's some awful Irishman or is he a Scot, well anyway he isn't English. And the way he tries to out talk my beloved Bobby George gets me in a terrible state. Horrid little man. Mr George on the other hand is pure Gold with a capital G. A trifle common but a man with a huge country house and cracking sense of humour. He also covers himself in Gold. Yuk! But he's a character and sports and games need characters. I like him.
Last night I watched Celebrity Mastermind, I thought Tony Parson's eyes looked a bit queer, the ever bright Paul Gambacini won it. Or was that the other night? At any rate he won it.

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It's coming down mightily now. And although it looks very charming it's getting to be a pain. The older I get the less willing I am to play rough stuff in the snow. Erecting an ice man and sticking a carrot in his face just doesn't do it for me any more. I prefer a fat warm teddy with a fish under his arm.

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Just had a text from Walt. Henry is drunk and did I do the pork chops? My answer? Oh no and no I did chicken breasts.

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Now I stop.
Mouse down, scrub up, phone off, film on.

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Awake at 4.
Up at 6.
Dressed and ready to go out right now.
But first of all Weetabix, jammy toast and Radio 4.
Have a feeling I'll need to take it easy today, snow fell during the night so slow goes the car and definitely no to the moving of a small two seater settee from no;38 to no;51 for Henry!
Yes, another hare brained idea from the pickled businessman.
He's quite mad you know. And it seems to be catching...

So seeing as I'm really cheesed off with him and almost everything else think I might buy myself some fish and chips after work and watch the darts on t.v. !

My favourite dress doing what it does best. Making me feel a million!

A friend has told me that he loved my poem "Everything About You". He said it was "genius". It's moments like these that help me by lifting me out from the terrible pit I sometimes put myself into...


I'm wondering where creative sorts get their creativity from. Like I don't know. Is it borne out of a need to communicate, or is it that they need to flash their feathers. Maybe a little of both. I once said I can't write poetry when I'm happy and I was quite right. I can't. Try try as I might I can't do the jolly-holiday-by-the-sea poem.
Pain, loneliness, anger and sadness rise, like vomit, leaving splashes of 'genius' all over the screen. Let me tell you how "Everything About You" came about.

I'd had a grey day.
And so things like frustration, incompatiblity, lust and fear swung around in my head like almighty bells till they eventually knocked me unconscious.
And that's when the poem was born. In the dark with only a dim table lamp for light. My hair was a mess likewise my head but the discomfort of being suffocated by parasitic invaders was about to bring rewards.

A floodgate had opened, and there wasn't anything I could do to stop the flow, and if truth be told I didn't want to. It felt, what did it feel like, it felt as if all I had to do was lay down and cleave open my mind and legs and let the baby come out. If I hadn't liked what I was giving birth to I couldn't have done anything about it. The seeds were sown a long time ago, probably early last year and then comes the birthday when sprogs of a dubious kind make their way out from the warmth of my worn out mind to the pages of this here blog.

And there they lay looking quite ugly, beautiful, festering, living, unadorned and magnificent like leftovers on the kitchen table, like all the jewels in the world Like hot semen between your legs. Like a hug just before he leaves. Like cold water on a hot day. Like the wailing of the insane, like the crying of a babe. Like words from a nice man. And all you want to do is flash and scream showing the world just how bad and wonderful it is housing all this ghastly glorious stuff so the poem is born.
And how name you this poem?
"Everything About You".

Love, loneliness and fear all inspire the poet but even good lengthy emails provoke responses. And as I read the words of my fellow blogger's email a new baby was gelling itself together taking immaculate form, and I knew as soon as his words hit my eyes that I'd have to blog about it
because that's what we creative sorts have to do.
Every day.

God it's cold and God it's dark and God I'm tired tonight. But tomorrow it's work so I'll put the dictionary away.
Till I feel again...

The Life of a Pudding

Here it is. A beef and mushroom pudding waiting to be steamed. Made using stewing beef, flat cap mushrooms, onions, Worcestershire sauce and stock, it is the best of all comforts foods. Nothing in my opinion comes anywhere close to this homely simple fare. It is the kind of squelchy hot food I would love children to taste, children whose only taste of beef comes in the shape of a Big Mac! I won't bleat on about women who rear their young on frozen chicken nuggets but I think there is a whole generation of nippers out there who have never tasted a real pudding. And that is a shame.

One of the glories of British cooking. Took 4 hours to steam and served it with potatoes and peas. I first fell in love with beef puddings when I was a little girl. My grandad, Ted, would come home from his day working on the railway and sit in his tiny kitchen being fed a pud. Nearly every day. I, of course, was always on hand to help him finish it off. He smothered it with white pepper and being a child of impeccable manners I lifted morsels up with my good gospel teaspoon and swallowed it. Pepper and all. According to my mum I always 'choked' but it was lovely all the same...

I managed to scoop it out but made a mess as I touched its bottom with my palette knife. The suet pastry was as light as a feather, the beef so tender I didn't need a knife to cut it, just the gentlest of nudges with a fork and it fell apart. Steam rose in wobbly pillars and all I could do was stare at it. Beauty on a plate.