Stir crazy...

emphasis on the stir.

All was going well, I had been busy in the garden repotting the tomato plants and generally rearranging the greenhouse.  In my world I am either horizontal or powering down the fast lane.  At times I could so easily be called slothful, others a total pain in the arse.  With me there is no middle ground.

The plan was a bracing walk up Clee Hill and boy was it bbb-bracing.  The wind cut through you with needles of ice.  For some reason I found the steep climb a real puff.  Over time and without noticing it my fitness has crept up.  I now walk up the steep hill into town without fantasising about breaking the glass on the defibrillator case at the top.  I even feel on good days I could take on Everest, although the nose to tail of queuing couldn’t be classed as social distancing.  Added to which the litter of spent loo paper and added excitements would offend my very prim and proper demeanour.  

Anyway back to the tale of yesterday’s expedition.

On the way home past my newest best supermarket... Aldi we decided husband would drop me off then take Ellie home, come back and pick me up.  A simple plan.  I walked in looking like a windswept tramp crossed with a scruff of a dominatrix wearing black leather gloves and hobnail boots.  All good... so far until from out of the blue I could feel my gait list to starboard. I ignored it, like you do?  It then ever so smoothly moved up a gear. With every fibre of self control pulsing to keep me straight I carried on.  Until I thought if I do I will definitely 

collopse in a heap.  I tottered to the door, the trolley was a godsend acting as a old dears walker.  Risking one hand off the trolley I hailed the husband like you would a cab, who luckily was parked right outside, gave him the list and like a drunk tottered to the car.  With the world going round I sat in the car and thought if I had sunk to the floor what would have happened in these days of people so afraid?

This time the BPPV wasn’t nearly as bad.  Made much better by getting home to a parcel, the contents of which quite took my mind of the weird world I had temporarily found myself in...

Thank you MG...

I have a tooth...

a tombstone of a tooth.

A front tooth no less with a tadge of filling missing, luckily on the backside!  I blame it squarely at the door of this bloody sourdough. Which I do seem to be making a lot of lately... sadly eating as well, as my waistline will testify.

Anyway I phoned the dentist to inform him of my dilemma, graciously suggesting as I had wussed out of my last appointment due to the appending virus swooping in, he could at the same time do the filling that was due to be done when I cancelled my visit!  Oh how naive I am!

His nurse phoned to say sorry no can do!  And until the government restrictions were lifted I was on my own.  She had worked out I wasn’t in pain, the only pain was the fear of chomping the butch crust of my bread.  The thought of losing even more of the filling means I have to cut my bread as you do for a toddler.  Some might say apt, me, I couldn’t possibly comment as I peel myself off the floor from having a strop about something!?!  The reason completely having gone from my child’s mind.

Anyway to cut a short story long, I have this morning, been playing dentists and patients with myself.

The nurse’s advice was to get a temporary filling kit and have a go... sounds like a plan... 

Yesterday, the filling I had to immerse in boiling water, roll between thumb and forefinger to soften wouldn’t strut its stuff and stick!  So last night I was back to watching the television with my tongue constantly checking out my tooth.

Today I have had more success with just using the cement so now I am sat here with a tongue that is constantly checking out this ruddy great lump of stuff stuck on the back of my front tooth.

Our VE day...

we walked the iron age fortifications on the top of Clee Hill.  With each step we remembered the millions who had died in the 2720 years since the start of the iron age.

Walking the fallen stones of the keep seemed more poignant on a day celebrating our recent history.

A clear beautiful late afternoon in the embrace of our scary new world.  Strange days we are all living through.

Ellie, hopefully you can see in the foreground.

She walks past the sheep with their lambs without a glance.

We couldn’t have found a better companion: she brings us joy.

I got to...

thinking about VE day and the recipes used during the war.

That then led me on to my appearance on Masterchef back in 1992, a tenuous link but there you are!

My second round menu featured potato pastry, no one on the judging team Anton Edelmann, Loyd Grossman and Sue Lawley had ever heard of it!

Now I ought to say here I am not old enough to remember the war, however I am interested in wartime recipes!  My pheasant pie with potato pastry they loved enough for me to win the semi final.

Not so my carrot tart in the final sadly!

The judges in the final were Richard Shepherd and Clement Freud.

My final menu wasn’t at all well received.  Although Richard Shepherd did say my shortcrust pastry was good  on the carrot 

tart.

I didn’t win!  No surprise there! I did however as a consequence go on to do so many exciting things.

Daytime television, radio... yes, cooking on the radio!?!  My son, well remembers hearing me setting the fire alarm off in the radio station.  The alarm reverberating through the airwaves.  Talks, demonstrations and finally three years as a royal chef.

All from being on Masterchef.

I often say now, I wouldn’t have done so well on today’s Masterchef.  My flying by the seat of your pants type cookery would have soon been routed out and I feel sure I would have been turfed  out at the first hurdle!

Happy days!

I am now off to make coffee cake with wartime Camp coffee... any excuse for cake!

Ellie, if you can see her is admiring the bunting?

i

‘Look here I’m the...

diva around here, not you!’

Prima donna of many years standing takes on the might of a hairy heap called Ellie.

I blame myself.  She arrived last August a very sad one year old horribly ill treated and mentally scarred rescue collie.

Many years ago I got a six month old rescue who also had had traumatic start to her short life.

Her name was Lettice, I just love that name, if I’d had a daughter... sorry if you’ve heard that story?  When I took her to the vet, he said do her a favour and never feed her what you wouldn’t eat yourself.  He also went on the say it is a fallacy that dogs need a lot of meat, make a casserole of a little meat with vegetables being the main ingredient.  So for the next fifteen years that’s exactly what I did, she got that twice a day with a sprinkle of kibble.

All good so far!

When Ellie came I thought I will do the same.  I ought to say here I am a feeder, being a cheffette in a past life, I love providing tasty food for all, dogs included.  Now those that read my blog will know in the main I could be classed as a daft tart and I am! However when it comes to nutrition I am focused and know my onions, as it were!

Ellie comes into our lives and we both fall in love,  no, no not with each other!?!

At the start she was grateful for any crumb... who wouldn’t be?

As time has gone on she has decided that her dietary requirements differ from the chef’s.

Does she know who she has chosen to defy I idly wonder?

It started with me putting her kibble in with the wet food, which over time she decided she didn’t like, the resulting splodge offended her five Michelin star appetite.  I then served two courses, the main and and an amuse bouche(kibble)next.  Alright I know it should be the other way round, but at the end of the day she is just a dog.  Although the Times have approached her to take over Giles Coren’s column, best not tell him!?!

The next recent development is she has decided she will skip the second course and just concentrate on the cassoulet.  Err... excuse me who is the boss around here?

She is hungry, I am cross, the husband cowers behind the cooker colander on head...

If glaring could...

make them grow I would be the doyenne of Chelsea Flower Show.

My stares, glares and evil eye,

make not one jot of difference.

I fanny about stage managing the greenhouse, the pots, the wires for the vine to grow.  Impatience is the name of my particular gardening game. I pop seedlings fresh out of the womb of their seed casing into the cold soil.  Heartlessly I heed not one word of their faint feeble cries.

I lavish them with the best possible compost, the finest ageing pots, made from the clay used to make the terracotta army.  Chimney pots wait in serried ranks, old wash tubs stand expecting their call to arms at any moment.

And will the little buggers grow?

Oh dear me no!

Well maybe, but to their own agenda, even the might of Lettice Leaf is no contest to Mother Nature.

It’s as it should be, reluctantly I realise as I sit drumming my fingers on the wormery.

At least those little critters seem to be working hard, so all is not lost here in deepest Ludlow.

We slithered down...

a very steep slope wishing we had packed our crampons.  The puff was so worth it into this secret valley. 

The walk was magical along the gently meandering stream.  Wild garlic clothed the bank like snow on the collar of a coat.

I had taken my iPad as Audrey being house bound loves to accompany us on our walks.

This beautiful pond was a complete surprise, especially seeing Ellie walk across the bridge in the middle of the picture.  Unfortunately being a ham photographer I didn’t capture it, too blooming slow!

This is Clee Hill our favourite walk.  We scramble to the trig point to get a wonderful vista laid out before us.  Seeing this peeping through the tress at the end of our walk, our tired legs could hardly imagine us there only the other day.

This dog is doing our old bod’s the power of good.  We most definitely wouldn’t be doing this level of walking without her!

‘What can I do for...

badness?’ 

is an oft heard refrain from my rosebud lips. 

As I’m at a loose end, aren’t we all?  I got to thinking, like you do, of some of my past capers, of which it won’t surprise you to imagine there are many!

He stood on the doorstep of my little terraced house beside the river Ouse in York.  He had carefully dressed in the hand spun, dyed and knitted by me fair-isle pullover.  As I opened the door the last person I expected to see was him.  My last sighting  was as he walked up to get the mail bus from where we lived in the Highlands.  He was off potato picking in Ripon. His parting words were 

‘If I can’t have you no one else will, I will fire the croft with you in it!’

With him away I had time to plan my escape.  I trudged up to the phone box to consult with a solicitor as to what to do.  The guy came all the way from Inverness to see me, his advice was for me to pack up his belongings and send them to where he was staying.  Provide a covering letter saying as the relationship had broken down it was over!  In fairness I had been saying this for eighteen months, so it wasn’t going to be a complete bolt out of the blue.  

My next problem was I didn’t have his address. I just wish I could remember exactly how I got it without alerting anyone what was afoot.  I did somehow get it and packed up his things, hired a man with a van to take them with the letter. At the solicitor’s advice told him to unpack the contents onto the pavement if necessary, deliver the letter and drive away.

I then had to pack up all my things and find homes for the animals. This is where my lovely neighbour came to the fore to take the animals and change the locks when I drove away.  I still feel in his debt to this day!

Into another van me, my treasures, the cat Sugar and the Westie Katie were taken by the guy who had come to do the double glazing on my croft house.  He drove us to York were I was going to stay in a house my father jointly owned with his lady friend.  

The solicitor assured me that this was my only course of action to ensure my safety and for Andy to accept that the relationship was finally finished.  

That wasn’t the end of it, without any idea about my whereabouts how did he track me down?

That’s a story for another day...

‘How lovely just...

one car!’ 

we said as we got to the top of Clee Hill.

As we drove by the solitary vehicle we glanced across to see a very white bare bum.

The oldies, him in his flat cap and driving gloves, me in my headscarf and Crimplene dress 

(fib... our attire, not the oldies bit sadly!)

laughed to ourselves.  

It was a beautiful clear day, we expected to see well into Wales, beautiful views through 360 degrees.

This unlooked for sight sort of set the scene for a very bracing walk, chuckles warming us as we stepped into the icy wind.

A good day!

It is called Titterstone Clee after all!?!

This is keeping me out...

of mischief today.

A Highland cow for Iain, work in progress. Not sure the beard is quite right?

The garden is more or less done, just a matter of giving the seedlings a hard stare and encouraging them by a glance to get a move on!  Not easy even with my power of personality!?!

Poppy looking over Alistair’s gate.

This what I do, as I can’t draw: I sew primitive interpretations of friends and their lives and the impact they have had on me over the years.  Keeps me off the streets and how important is that in these troubling times?  I’m happy, I’ve always fancied myself as a recluse.

Throw away...

lines of mine and friends.

‘Look here me old matey!’

This to a person far used to being addressed as Sir!

(You can take the girl out of Dartford, sadly not Dartford out of the girl!?!)

Roy.

Two from a very dear eccentric friend...

‘As I was saying to my mother... 

the Queen!

‘To cut a long story short!’

then proceeding to cut a short story... l o n g!

Danny.

‘As camp as custard!’

and he was.

And...

‘Just like a fart in a colander looking for a hole to get out!’

Both of Danny’s sayings I use, feeling he lives on in his funny one liners.

Me.

Whenever I am asked by anyone about any numbers required ie 

How many slices of toast?

My reply is the same... 26!

(the fact I only ever have one, one and a half at the weekend is a mere bagatelle!)

My Auntie Marjorie I always called Auntie Margarine... that’s one from Danny.

I always call the fridge, t’oven

(the oven).

‘You’ve got one on the other side!’

as he stubs his toe or hurts his arm!

‘I am surprised he didn’t cock his leg up and show it who was the boss!’ 

I said as we all stood round ‘admiring’ the dead leopard rug!?! The person (mentioned above) was regaling us with how his Jack Russel had growled at first sight of the rug. 

All eyebrows were raised with glances at me of the unspoken words...

‘I can’t believe she said that!’

I shrugged and thought maybe they get my disapproval of this wonderful creature finishing up as  a ruddy rug... I did hope so!

Over the years I have opened my mouth and put my foot in it more times than I care to recall.

Have you any to share?