Day 213: Pretend Sunday

Today doesn't feel like a Tuesday.  It's definitely a Sunday.  So in line with that, and the autumnal weather, I roast a chicken, and attempt to buy a new waterproof jacket that lives up to its name. 

Not me.  At all. 

It's harder than I expected.  The sales 'assistant' isn't very good at assisting.  Mainly because I think she's disturbed that I'm trying on men's coats. 

I try to explain - 'I've got long arms.'  I'm getting nothing back from her.  'Like a monkey...' I trail off as she looks at me blankly. 

The real issue

And it's true.  I do have long arms. 

But the real reason is that I dislike 'ladies' waterproofs - both the cut (slightly waisted), and also the colours (invariably ones I do not want to wear).  Sky blue.  Mauve.  Pink.  I want something dark and sludgy, big and baggy enough for me and lots of layers.  I am not Anthea Turner. 

But she is very insistent that I go downstairs and at least look at the ladies section.  I oblige.  I even try on a purple number, secure in the knowledge that I will absolutely not be buying it. 

I'm back upstairs within three minutes.  'No good?' she asks, looking at me with dead eyes.  I shoot straight back - 'Arms too short'. 

She doesn't believe me.  'Really??'  'YES.'  (And they are - although only slightly.  I don't want to get into a rant about colour and cut and Anthea.  She won't understand.)

I order a long length baggy dark green man's waterproof, and go home to eat roast chicken.  It's easy when you've got monkey arms. 

Day 212: Smoke (No Mirrors)

Return to St Albans, where the bedraggled remains of a rainy Jubilee are still in evidence.  Onn the high street, there's a funfair, burger vans and trestle tables, plus a stage with a man singing 'Hello Dolly'.  Nothing for me here. 

I've not seen a hair brush or soap or a mirror since Saturday morning.  The shower water going down the plughole is dirty and the bathroom smells of campfire smoke.  These are good things. 

Turn on the telly to see some manic flag waving.  Prince Phillip manages to get out of attending the Jubilee concert courtesy of a 'bladder infection'.  Elton wears violent pink, Gary looks stressed and Macca strains uncomfortably for the high notes.

As I go to bed, I pass my jacket and sniff the sleeve. 

Still smells of smoke.      

Day 211: Very Campetent

I am camping.  Which for me normally means the minimum (coffee pot, packet of fig rolls - all nutritional bases covered). 

Not nylon

Believe

Not this weekend.  I am a new addition to a group of people who are SERIOUS ABOUT CAMPING.  Their enclave looks like those sepia photos of tinkers travelling round the lanes of Kent in the early 1900s.  Canvas bell tents*.  Massive stone-encircled fires.  Soot-blackened kettle suspended from metal tripod.  Fire trivets made from horse-shoes welded together. 

And they FORAGE.  So in addition to five spit-roast chickens (perfectly cooked - not raw, not dry), we have samphire.  Elderflower fritters (yup - tempura batter made on the campsite).  Goblin Beard seaweed is drying by the fire, ready for frying tomorrow.  There's a birthday, so Duncan* makes a chocolate cake from scratch and bakes it on the fire.  (Yes.  This really happens.) 

(The fig rolls of shame stay in my tent.  Nobody need know about them.)       

* Duncan (Gandalf crossed with Eric Clapton) doesn't have a canvas bell tent.  He has an ironic orange and brown 1970s 'house' tent.  The sort that Barbara Windsor uses in Carry On Camping.  You can do that when you're clearly the Camping Top Trump.

Day 210: Travelling Without Moving

When I was small we never went anywhere on a Bank Holiday weekend.  'Traffic' said my father, with dark emphasis and finality.  I always wondered why everyone else managed to travel and survive, when apparently it would be impossible for us.

The carrot

On occasion I would get bucket and spade out, and position them provocatively in the hall.  Hoping that Dad would be so transported by the thought of constructing a technically accurate motte-and-bailey in sand, that he would relent (he never did).

The stick

Today I have a taste of the 'traffic' my father dreaded.  A two-and-half hour journey takes five-and-a-half hours.  It's less physical (much of the time I'm stationary); more mental (shock, denial, anger, service station sweets).  By the time I roll into the camping field, I'm mute with acceptance and sugar.  I cannot quite believe I have managed to make it. 

Here there are tents, and people bimbling about, and a tree-trunk of pork on a spit that needs to be turned.  This is a job for me.  I am in control of the spit.  It continues to move.  There are no hold-ups, accidents or dangerous manoeuvres.  The horror of the M3 starts to fade away, as I keep turning.         

Travelling without moving.

Day 209: The Life Everlasting

Today I have seen:-

- A rabbit  cut in half by a passing car
- A disembowelled squirrel (the leftovers, not the actual incident)
- Duck rape (drake on drake - and definitely non-consensual)

In other news I have just made a tortilla using everything in the fridge that is definitely past it.  A graveyard tortilla (a mortilla).

It features a wrinkly deflated pepper.  A soft onion.  Some unspeakable feta that smells like a tannery.  Weeping coriander.  Yellowing spinach.  It is remarkably successful, and pleases me way more than if I'd used decent, upstanding, living ingredients. 

Today has been all about violence, death and resurrection.  I done a mini-Easter all of my own.  In June.  Amen.

Day 208: Union Jack-Off

This morning my run takes me past the little primary school behind St Michael's church.  Jubilee has come early.  Red, white and blue abounds - on faces, hats, and trays of luridly-iced fairy cakes.  A small girl is having trouble with her fascinator - a frankly camp Union Jack mini top hat, rakishly attached to a hairband. 

Small girl (weeping):  Nooo!  It's not RIGHT.  I can't go in 'til it's on right!

Mum (quietly desperate):  Darling, I really HAVE to go to work...

Daughter wins; Mum loses (fascinator 1; corporate duty 0).

Random knitting nan

This afternoon, I see a group of nans all wearing knitted rosettes.  Massive floppy cabbages of wool (red, white and blue - obvs) pinned to lapels.  I wonder whether they are being gladly worn, or whether one nan (the one who knits, but shouldn't) has imposed her work on all the others (suspect the latter).  I like the rosettes.  Handmade, slightly wrong-looking, and defiantly original. 

Small girl loses; knitting nan wins (fascinator 0; wool cabbage 1).  Pecking order restored.

Day 207: Bin Troll

Involved?

Today the vegetable peelings bin in the kitchen smells like a troll has taken a shit in it.  It has NEVER been this bad before.  Hot weather?  Rogue matter?  It's repulsive - a reason to avoid breathing, rather than to keep on.  But at the same time it is so flamboyantly bad, that there's a compulsive grandeur to it.  This is a new level of bad. 

I'm dealing with it right now.  The unspeakable bin contents have been shrouded in newspaper and buried in the compost bin outside.  But the troll shit presence is still very strong in the kitchen, even though the backdoor is open for ventilation. 

GHI sense a 'presence'

I have asked it respectfully to leave, and let it know that the time has come to move on.

Tomorrow I may have to burn incense.  If that fails, it may be time for GHI.  Or a priest.  Or both.