Oooops

I posted about sausages and tea breads here instead of over on Glo's Table.
A very easy mistake to make.
I will from now on keep the Bungalow for posts on Life and Football. Talking of which..My life is nothing but a whirr of mismanaged action. And mum continues to irritate, opine and forget I'm an adult. But I let it go.
Football though is fun and tomorrow's night's ITV1 coverage of Manchester United v. Bayern Munich is a must-see.......
If not for the football then for the face of Man U's newish manager David Moyes. Because if, heaven forbid, they lose his head will surely be on a stake.

 

 

 

Ouch...

 

 

Tea Bread

Later on, with the last few drops in the tea pot, I'll soak some dried fruit then after a while add sugar, margarine, eggs and spices, self raising flour and pinch of salt.
Mix well and bake in a moderate oven till risen and brown.
Poke a skewer in, if it's baked it will come out clean.

This is perfect thickly sliced and spread with butter.
 Talking of butter....This whole butter v. spread thing is sending me doolally. Butter Spread Butter Spread.
Hmmmm.
I think providing one doesn't leave teeth marks in it it's ok to use butter.

I like making tea breads.
There's something soothing and homely about them.

For tea tonight: Sausage Saxony.

Me Mad, He Too!

Mr Hairy scrubbing up nicely. (My God I look tiny)

Me making sure Hairy doesn't bring any muck into the kitchen

Snapped by Mr Horsehound, the very mad and brave Hairy Suit getting to grips with my conifers.

A Beautiful Old Mare x

Fur and Feathers

I now know I am officially bonkers in the nut.

For after a doorstep chat with Barry, my elderly wobbly and very concerned neighbour I came over all sensitive and caring.
After he offered to cut the trees that divide our properties I offered some support. He wouldn't need to clamber up ladders Mr Horsehound would do so on his next day orf.
His faltering voiced yet chummy chatter was laced with concern about his wife, apparently she was still in bed at 8 a.m..Something unheard of in all their years of marriage. He then went on to talk to ME about how better it is that widows or widowers are best out of the way. A bottle of tablets and whisky etc etc. Oh deary me I thought as I listened to this frightened man.

"No" I said "One must live"

He looked in amazement.
"Is your mum still with you?"
"Yes"
"Don't you think it's better for them to go?"
"Where?"
"You know?"
"No, it's better to live"

And soon Barry, with a half- hearted smile, wearied himself away...............

And I took myself out into the garden where sparrows jumped from feeder to feeder picking up not only food  but bits of branches and grass...To make comfortable homes for their young.
Suddenly, as if by magic, all my mothering instincts gushed forth..I ran back inside and gathered up all of Monty's fur which he's so happily shed all over the carpets.
And, with a teacupful of his soft black hair, I did my bit for the next generation of sparrows and robins.
Along with a good seed mix I placed the balls of fur on the bird table, hoping mum and dad birds would use it to er...feather their nests....
After all these small fighters think of one thing only. 
Survival...

I now have to do my daughter bit.....

I'm throwing out all my skirts.
Opting instead for the much womanlier...Dress.
I have a few in the wardrobe and intend stocking up on more via charity shops.
Nothing beats the full flow of an elegant frock. Today's ensemble is a purple, navy blue and pink polyester affair bought for £2 yonks ago. I love its scoop neckline ( but not a peek of my boobies) and I'm comfortable within its voluminous folds, a great comfort when one is either plump or getting thinner!
To add sex, which I must say is essential when nearing sixty, I've opted for my newest shoes bought in charity shop yesterday for £5.... Clarkes patent leather taupe coloured slip on wedges with divine instep strap. A good three inch heel adds sway. My tights are wicked. Glossy tan but letting in air on account of all the ladders. Yum.
Make-up minimal. Vintage Rose lippy and mascara.
Scent. Yardley's Rose.
Jewellry. White gold ring with huge diamond (my heartfelt thanks to Hairy for his moment of madness).
And a long necklace made of string and old blue buttons.

I'm the one on the left.
The white flowers to my left and right are silk. The lady 'Esther' carrying the bag takes care of them. Tied up with a pair of black tights is an apple tree and in the background a rapid growing Red Robin. A sea green Buddleia awaits warmth and the first butterflies. Pea gravel adds crunch.

And here I am holding on to the swinging seat. Until we came here in 1995 I'd never had a garden and it's still a marvel to a townie like me. Weeds in the cracks, fussy Stalinist neighbours, never enough cash for upkeep yet still the sound of birds and new growth has me running breathlessly around placing pots of seeded dirt in the hope of a blast of colour come May.
Today I planted a Forysythia and a purple flowering shrub.

I bathed in the sun this afternoon. And for company Mr HairySuit and a local pigeon. Both immaculate in the dress department, both silent.
And while Mother cooked in the heat of the front room I daydreamed about the World Cup, Wimbledon, and a rainbow garden.