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...