Day 87: Chocolate Bonnet

This afternoon someone left a half-eaten chocolate bar on the bonnet of my car.   My street is a cul de sac, so no passing pedestrian traffic.  It feels like a deliberate comment.  I wonder whether this is the suburban mafia equivalent to a horse's head in my bed (bar is to car as head is to bed).

It's naked.  Wrapperless.  So it's not like it's been put to one side whilst a mobile is rummaged for in the bottom of a bag.  And anyway, you wouldn't randomly leave a snack on the middle of a bonnet for safe-keeping.  On a wall - maybe.  Even the edge of a bonnet.  But the middle?  No. 

Anything half-eaten always feels like an insult.  It's not the first time I've had leftovers on my bonnet (and that's not a euphemism).  I once broke down on a junction in East Finchley, late at night.  I was standing miserably in the rain, waiting for the AA, when someone lobbed a half-eaten kebab from the top of the night bus.  It hit the bonnet squarely, and the impact left me speckled with chili sauce and strands of lettuce.  It felt artistic and appropriate.  We were stranded in the rain both wearing the badges of our shame and pain. The car's - for failing on a junction (again). And mine, for driving a C-reg Ford Orion (and yes, this was only about six years ago...).  Like a 80s film - that bit where the protagonist has fallen incredibly low, just before the climb to redemption and triumph. 

But this, today, is just plain weird.  The car is parked appropriately.  Yes, it could do with a wash, but it's not even two years old yet, and on a dull day the dirt's not showing.  And the bar has been PLACED.  Carefully centred. 

Someone CHOSE to do this.  I am intrigued.

Can't help wondering if this an oblique comment on my slackness at shifting the post-Christmas flab...  (Some of my neighbours have hanging baskets and clipped hedges - they like a well-maintained frontage.)  If it is, I applaud the inventiveness of the gesture, even though I resent the interference. 




Don't pressurise me, man.  I'm more of a drift-planter.

Day 86: Summer Round The Bend

Slightly seedy this morning, courtesy of red wine enthusiasm last night.  I was in Muswell Hill visiting friends - hence yesterday's 99p Stores experience.  (I didn't go to Muswell Hill purely to visit the shop - we've got one in St Albans, although its stock-range is nowhere near as exciting.  If they did stock a Warrior of Virtue it would be Meh, Virtue of Averageness.)

This is my friends' woollen bowl (or hobbit beret).  I've never seen a woollen bowl before.  Last night it was used to serve chocolate mints.  Bob claims it is a 'camping fruit bowl'.  I am very taken with it.  And glad that I took a photo for use here, as an internet search comes up with nothing for 'woollen bowl', but unpleasantly suggests a 'swollen bowel' alternative. 



Because it is a cold, and slightly seedy Sunday, I dedicate the day to the sofa and catching up with 'Downton Abbey'.  Only seen a couple of episodes of the second series, so way behind everybody else in the UK.

I once spent a summer at Highclere Castle, working for Landrover on their 'Days of Discovery'.  Which were events dedicated to wooing journalists and buyers, with plenty of opportunity for the Landrover Discovery to twirl, simper and generally flash its knickers. 

But journalists and buyers inevitably come with offspring who get bored and whingy around torque talk.  I am one of a motley bunch hired to entertain the children, and my dedicated domain is the Scalextric marquee.  Children rush the tent in a swarm of sticky hands and matted hair, pupils dilated on limitless Sprite.  Controls are grabbed, cars shoot off the track immediately into the canvas walls.  There is one ridiculous Gambon bend which requires the Teutonic control of Schumacher.  Co-ordinated ten-year-olds are vastly outnumbered by goggle-eyed, mouth-breathing five year olds, welded to the controls like mini-tyrants, but jigging up and down, wee-needily.  I spend a summer of my life at this bend, replacing tiny metal cars on tiny metal tracks (wax on; wax off).  The tent smells of crushed grass, red sweets and child fart.  There is a photo somewhere of me, at the end of a day's car-shepherding, sitting on a Spacehopper outside the tent, looking emotionally and physically drained.  I love that photo. 

In one of the Downton episodes, Lord Grantham flirts stiltedly with Jane in the grounds of the castle.  And in the background, that familiar view framed exactly as I used to glimpse it from the Scalextric tent, where it wobbled hazily in the August heat, like a mirage of tranquility.  For a split second, I smell the ghost memory of crushed grass, red sweets and child fart.  It fades quickly.  Mercifully, I'm on a sofa, not a Spacehopper.

Day 85: Rude, Noble and Decorative

A trip round the 99p Stores in Muswell Hill, on the hallowed ground where Woolworths once stood.  A great deal of pleasure to be found in the randomly-crammed aisles. 

Fancy a guaranteed laugh?  You're in the right place.  Here's 'Rude Polly', a talking fabric parrot.  'With so many different phrases, Rude Polly is a guaranteed laugh.'  There's the guarantee.  And with the sample snippet 'Just look at those tits?' (sic - the question mark is there), I think we've all experienced the veracity of that claim. 

Not up for adult fun?  Want something more noble?  How about some WARRIORS of VIRTUE.  Yes.  There's a choice of three sub-Thunder Cats (less predatory; more Thunder Kangaroos):- 

Chi - Virtue of Wisdom; Power of Fire.  He flings blazing arrows and pitches scorching fireballs at his enemies. Nimble and flexible, he is fast as lightning in a whirlwind. Chi is clever and keen, but his eagerness to battle evil can also get him into trouble. Chi borders on being recklessly curious. Still, his sharp wit and pyrotechnic skills make him the hot shot among the Warriors.

Lai - Virtue of Order; Integrity of Wood.  Lai is solid as a tree trunk. A master woodcarver, Lai arms himself with a beautifully-crafted, wooden staff. He anticipates the strategy of his foes, and uses exceptionally strong footwork from double and triple roundhouse kicks to the unique "shadowless kick." Where there is chaos, Lai brings order and stability.







And Yee - Virtue of Righteousness; Strength of Metal.  Yee's kung-fu blows are as hard as iron. His arms have the crushing might of a bear, and his body is a strong, protective shield. Yee is the silent judge of right from wrong and lives by a strict code of honor. His steely silence gives him the appearance of being unfeeling, but underneath his indomitable will is a heart of gold.




ALL this noble-ness for £2.97. 


No?  Not for you?  Then how about a 'Decorative Wasp'?  It's big - about 20cm long, thereby maximising ornamental potential.  Not sure what to do with a DW?  No problem, because there are some helpful serving suggestions of the packaging -'Attach to Tree, Fences, Garden Sheds and Wall...'.

This is a powerful piece of brand management.  The wasp - previously feared and avoided - has now assumed 'Decorative' status in my mind.  The possibilities are endless.  Fear something?  Simply apply a new adjective ('shy', 'ornamental' and 'needy' are reliably good).  Eg Ornamental Al Quaeda.

Bored?  Depressed?  Get yourself down to the 99p Stores.  Rude, noble AND decorative.

Day 84: First There is a Carpet

End of a long day wrestling with a bag of weasels.  (Metaphorically not literally.)  Recovering by sitting mutely in front of a programme about the 1960s Brit music invasion of the US.  The screaming!  The hair!  The idealism!   

This is Graham Nash from The Hollies: 'Donovan has got this great universal love, man. Today, because the kids are so tolerant, they really want to understand what people are trying to say, so they’ll go with Donovan 99% of the way. Because what he’s trying to put over is best for everybody. What Donovan is trying to put over will stop wars DEAD.'

When I was about ten, and itching to spend my pocket money, I randomly bought a stash of ancient 7" singles from a second-hand stall at the village fete.  A blind buy - I'd never heard of any of the names.  Jet Harris.  The Ivy League.  And Donovan. 

Had I known at the age of ten that Donovan's message would stop wars DEAD, I might have reacted slightly differently to 'There is a mountain'.  As it was, I struggled with the lyrics.  'First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.'  (WHAT?  WHY?  Does the mountain disappear?  How is that possible?  Where does it go?  Why does it come back?  Or is this just a nonsense poem - like Lear?) 

Next line: 'Caterpillar sheds its skin, to find a butterfly within'.  (WHAT??  This is completely LOGICAL - I cannot square it with the mountain-stuff.  My Lear theory is blown).  Next line: 'First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.'  (OK - bemusing first time round, but now just irritating for a rather literal ten-year old).

On one of the few occasions I've taken magic mushrooms, I found myself staring at a carpet  hanging on the wall.  A studenty kilim.  As I stared, the pattern started moving, and dissolving, and I got sucked into it - I BECAME ONE with the carpet.

After some hours, I was delivered back into my own body and the carpet was on the wall again. 

First there is a carpet, then there is no carpet, then there is. 

I think I get it now.

Day 83: Do-Be-Do

'You are a human being, not a human doing'.  This piece of popular wisdom crops up sporadically in my life, but I've heard it twice in the space of the last two days.  So I've been giving it some thought. 

I remember the first time I came across it - in a classroom setting, and said with great solemnity and guru-like intent.  I had to bite a pen hard to avoid laughing at the concept of a 'human doing'. 

('Oh God!  What IS that thing behind the sofa?'

'I'm not sure, Marjorie.  It looks suspiciously like a 'human doing'.  These tenants are ANIMALS.')

I was distracted during the detailed explanation of the phrase (too busy sketching a graphic reminder in my notebook) but from what I remember, the meaning is that we rush around too much/are too busy, and need to take time to stop and just be.  I completely agree with this, but I'm not a fan of the phrase.  It's neat and glib, but for me it doesn't convey its intended meaning.  As it is, it implies that we should 'be', rather than 'do'.  I disagree.  Because I think we need to 'do' rather than 'be'.  By which I mean that we are the sum total of our actions.  Nothing else counts.  Inside I may BE a gentle and courteous person.  But that is worthless if I choose not to actually DO gentleness and courtesy on a regular basis. 

Interestingly you cannot do without being - do leads to be.  But you can be without doing - be does not necessarily lead to do. 

(I would like to hear Yoda say this - 'Do without being you cannot.  Do to be leads.  But be without doing you can - be to do...'  I give up - I'm all tangled and cannot Yoda-ise that last sentence.)

So, on balance, I'd rather be a human doing.

('The rug will never be the same again, Bradley.  I feel violated.'

'Stand back, Marjorie, I'm DEALING WITH IT!')

Day 82: Life Through A Lens

Work unexpectedly postponed means a free day. A good thing because I cannot tolerate my contact lenses at the moment. When I recently went to see my optician, he looked at my left eye and we had the following exchange:-

Optician (bemused): Doesn't it HURT?
Me: Should it?
Optician: Well, YES! The lens is rubbing badly and your eye is all scratched.
Me: Oh...

Here I bear witness to the power of the mind. Since this conversation, that eye has felt gritty, watery, burning. I've even had sharp stabby pains. Thinking back over the last few months, I have probably had more than normal cause to take my lens out and put it in my mouth clean it carefully with sterile wetting solution. But I didn't pay it any attention - I just got on with it. Not now. Not now I am consciously expecting (and receiving) PAIN. That lens is dead to me. Until the new one arrives, I am wearing my glasses:-

Me: Do you want to see my glasses?
Optician: Oh go on, then - let's have a laugh.
Me: They're a little dirty, I'm afraid...
Optician: Frankly, they're shagged.

(Please note - these are true and accurate transcripts - I have not created an outspoken optician for your entertainment. This is my real optician.)

So - I am reliant on my glasses. It's rather like looking through frosted glass. I wouldn't be able to work in them, and I suspect I shouldn't drive. Everything is blurry and pleasantly vague. Life through a Vaseline-smeared lens.

Several years ago I considered laser eye surgery. I went for the consultation, but I am so short-sighted that I wasn't a suitable candidate. Not entirely sorry, as I think I'd miss being able to literally lose focus and disengage at the end of the day. It's a trigger and a permission for me to retreat into my own internal world.

When I got glasses at the age of nine, I was already pretty shortsighted. I remember putting them on for the first time, and being extremely surprised by (specifically, and in order) a) gravel b) grass and c) Yogi Bear. Pre-glasses I had always seen a) brownish stuff b) green stuff c) a moving blob. Amazed to see a) little stones b) individual blades c) a bear in a hat and tie.

Being very short-sighted does give you a slightly different perspective. I lost my glasses at school one day, and had to go home blurry. It wasn't without complications - I couldn't see the number on the bus, even though I was standing right next to it. I had to ask the driver, and he thought I was taking the piss, and got a bit pithy. I couldn't recognise my friends facially - but the thing that allowed me to pick them out in was the way they moved. I could read the rhythm and speed of gestures and gait, even at a very fuzzy distance. That day really tuned my dial in to a new frequency - ever since, even with my glasses on, or my lenses in, I've been hyper-conscious of how people move. You can tell a great deal by a walk.

Back to the opticians tomorrow, to have the new lenses checked. Strap in for more insults. 'Your eyes are total dicks'. I'm quite looking forward to it.

Day 81: Phileas Blog

Phileas Fogg circumnavigated the globe in eighty days - the exact length of time I've been blogging.   His is the greater achievement*.

Phileas Fogg means two things to me - tortilla chips (see left), and the Reform Club, which is the setting for the whole Round-The-World-In-Eighty-Days wager.  I've visited the Reform Club twice.  I don't remember much from the first time.  It was a twenty-first birthday party and the drinks were strong and various and numerous. 

The second time was last year, courtesy of a friend who is a member.  After a time-warp supper (soup tureens, aged bewhiskered waiters, fish course, and pudding trolley - 'Trifle please, Nanny!'), I am shown around.  Marble pillars, backgammon and sherry, Burgess and Maclean.  The bathrooms are fantastic - unadorned boarding-school functional, with vast porcelain tubs and wide-bore taps designed to thunder hot water in extravagant, steamy quantities.  No condensing boiler trickle here. 

A small secluded library - not the main one, but another, hidden away on the first floor.  And, apparently, custodian to SECRETS.  Over the years, members have used the books in this room as discreet carriers for messages - a way of keeping things untraceable and anonymous.  But sometimes circumstances (eg death, dishonour, amnesia etc) meant that these were not collected, so they have just remained folded silently into the pages.  Only to be found many years later, when all the books were catalogued.  Along with carefully stashed bottles of vintage spirits, concealed behind dusty volumes.  Old buffers jealously guarding their Bowmore '55, and taking the secret of its whereabouts to the grave (suspended in time behind 'An Economic History of the Punjab').  I've always wanted to find a secret message in a book, preferably in a second-hand shop.  (Who doesn't?)  But a library would do.  Particularly in a dusty, fusty London club.

* This is counterbalanced by the fact that he is a fictional character, and therefore this is a fictional achievement. So not an achievement at all.  Blog beats Fogg. 
        

Day 80: On the Red Eye

To the ugly majesty of the Renaissance, Heathrow - a hotel caught in an aesthetic time warp.  The 1970s reborn, and the spiritual home of the couple on the front of the MasterMind box.  The lounge is tailormade for a lizard - beige leather, glittering prism lights, and carpet that makes you giddy.  A choking miasma of Febreze hangs heavy throughout the ground floor - a step taken, no doubt, to mask the decades of cigar smoke steeped deep into the soft furnishings.  It's a place for men to swirl brandy in balloon glasses.  Moustaches, fat tie knots, and heavy gold rings.  And for women to smoke cocktail cigarettes behind swooping Farrah Fawcett flicks.  Every time I get to work here, it never fails to entertain.  It's a film set in real life. 

(On the subject of environmental joy, I forgot to mention this.  Last week, at a rather stuffy business insurance company (all glass and steel and lack of humour), I spotted the CAMPEST signage ever.  I was moved to take a photo, and I think you'll agree that I was right to do so.  This definitely belongs in the Renaissance.  Although it's arguably even better in the incongruity of its current location.)

Feeling a lot better today, but I woke up this morning with a burst blood vessel in my eye.  Looks dramatic; completely painless.  Think I must have blown my nose too enthusiastically last night.  Obviously having spent the day around Heathrow, I've been telling people that I caught 'the red-eye'...

Day 79: Apolitical Chicken

Still ill.  But with just sufficient energy for the most important Sunday rituals.  Paper - check.  Film - check.  Roast chicken - check.  That's enough for me.

The film is 'Senna'.  I was going to see it at the cinema, but was put off by some reviews that claimed (erroneously) that it was a film purely for petrol-heads.  It's not.  Fascinating to see a person so utterly driven, single-minded and courageous about their purpose in life.  And also very disturbing to watch someone lose their sense of certainty and flow.  In this case, he knew that his car was simply not handling as it should.  The tension rolls off him the day before his fatal crash.  It's as if he knows what's coming. 

The film ends with some interview footage where he's asked about his favourite racing memories.  Without hesitation he talks about his early days in competition go-karting.  No politics, no money.  No Formula One, no spraying champagne, no logos.  Just pure racing.

The best and purest things are done just for the love of it.  Sometimes there are politics where there is no money.  But where there is money, politics seem inevitable (definitely a Venn diagram opportunity).  And the politics and the money put a stranglehold on the love.  A weird dance. 

Fortunately a roast chicken has no political or financial agenda.  It's just about the love.

Day 78: Diminished Responsibility

Stuffed full of cold.   After a night of mouth-breathing, I wake dehydrated and sounding like Barry White.   Manage this the best way I know how - a large coffee and a run.   Kill or cure.

May have underestimated this one.   Rather more kill than cure.   So the rest of the day has been subdued.   Adrenalin-free elements include an undemanding walk around the park, an omelette, a crossword, and a programme about criminal forensics in Luton.

Essentially I have become a pensioner for the day.   Time to turn the radio on way too loud.   If I had a Mr Kipling apple pie (which I would do, if I were the classic pensioner), I might be able to manage half.  I'd save the rest for next week. 

Yes. I know.   Ageist stereotyping.   Not my fault.   I'm ill, I tell you.   ILL!   Diminished responsibility through illness.

Off to paint a cock on a public building.

Day 77: Buttons of Silver

A damp, dull day.  Puddles and smeary skies.  I don't know why, but something about it reminds me of walking to the shops with my mother when I was small.  Tom in the pushchair, and me holding onto one of the side supports for security.  Mum had a raincoat that was slate blue glazed cotton, sheeny with waterproofing.  It had big silver Pop Art buttons, domed and shiny - fascinating fish-eye worlds.  I loomed at them, to see my distorted spoon-face reflection.  Pete Townsend nose and cartoon eyes.

Today is a 'business dress' day.  I feel trussed up like a ready-to-roast chicken as I travel to Fenchurch Street.  I am with a group of people who are also in 'business dress'.  For this, read 'unflattering machine-washable tailoring, in uniform monochrome'.  Which pretty much matches their behaviour.  They are a guarded and anxious lot, reluctant to speak out, and tense in their seats for the first twenty minutes.  Does the dull clothing inspire the dull attitude?  Or does the dull attitude inspire the dull clothing? 

I find it hard to imagine they'd behave like this if they were wearing robes.  Business robes.  Embellished with talismanic symbols, and big silver Pop Art buttons.  How much better would a meeting be if you could SWISH into it?   

Sell me a coat with buttons of silver
Sell me a coat that's red or gold
Sell me a coat with little patch pockets
Sell me a coat 'cause I feel cold
    

 

Day 76: Thicker than Average

Last night I ate (unseasonally) some summer pudding.  It was delicious - purple, and luscious with juice-soaked bread walls.  This morning I recoiled violently when I touched (by accident) a crust of bread that had fallen into the sink and soaked up some water.  It felt disgusting - cold and sluggy and unexpected.  Both experiences involve wet bread.  Both very different.  It's all about context.

Cardamoms

Pistachios

 

QUESTION:  When is a pistachio not a pistachio? 

ANSWER:  When you are short-sighted*, and it is in fact a cardamom pod. 

This morning, shortly after I've recovered from Breadgate, I am idly waiting for my coffee to brew, when I notice a 'pistachio', sitting on the work surface.  Never one to look a gift nut in the mouth, I pop it straight into mine.  (No matter that I do not know the provenance, or how long it had been sitting on the work surface, or how clean the work surface is.  Actually, I think I do know that one.  It does not reflect well on me in several ways...)  I bite down to experience shock - the full Marrakesh souk hit of a cardamom pod.  Fished out of last night's pilau rice, and discarded - where it's been lying in wait for the entire night before MASQUERADING as a nut.  Same greenish colour, same size, same weight.  Dramatically different taste though.  Now, I like cardamom.  It's beautiful in curries, and rice.  Even in chocolate.  Not in the morning though.  And not when I was expecting pistachio.  It's all about context. 

An eye check-up this afternoon.  I dread this, because I always get slightly concerning results.  Last year a scan of my left eyeball showed a 'dark mass' (obviously I hear 'eye cancer').  There's also been talk of 'restricted visual fields' (ie eye cancer) and 'blind spots' (eye cancer.)  Today, my optician, who has very good teeth and smells of lemons, sits back and smiles whitely.  'You're thicker than average', he pronounces.  I am delighted.  For he is not referring to my IQ or my waist, but my corneas - and his discovery means that my dangerously high intra-ocular pressure reading is explained and unconcerning.   

Happy to be thicker than average.  As I say, it's all about context.

*  I was wearing my glasses.  But, in the words of my optician, they are 'shagged'.

Day 75: Free-Range Countryside

The privilege of starting a day by walking up the chalk-scattered rise of Hambledon Hill.  Sculptured Iron Age earthworks on a massive scale, and the most dramatic three hundred and sixty degree views.  It's a wild, ancient, vital place and I feel small and temporary.  We plan to spend a night up here at Midsummer.  A tent, and a lamp and the simple wish to absorb the atmosphere of a place that has held such power for so many centuries. 

Then to my job - in the confines of Longleat Center Parcs.  I've had no reason to go to Center Parcs before.  Weird.  A Stepford Wives version of woodland.  It smells correct - all foresty, damp and coniferous.  But so manicured.  Paths and rustic railings, and lights and chalets, and specially laid-out cycle trails.  I get the point.  It's rural-made-easy.  But it's not for me.

Ready countryside, like ready meals.  Quick, convenient, and ultimately unsatisfying.  No.

Hambledon Hill.  Hambledon Hill.  Hambledon Hill.

Day 74: Picking Up Things

An early job takes me to Regent Street.   The Christmas crowds are gone, and without the need to fight through them, there's the space to imagine the pavements peopled by the past.   It's a street where it comes easy.  Hats and canes and stiff collars.   Particularly around the old Cafe Royal, where Oscar Wilde's downfall started.   (And where I torched my fringe with a Zippo.   Less monumental, but still significant to me.   I looked very surprised for a month.)  I daydream my way down the broad pavement, and look at shops catering for tourists with cash.  Sherlock hats and Mozart balls.   

Tomorrow I have stupidly agreed to do a job at Longleat (raarrgh!).  I say stupidly, because I had Longleat and Woburn mixed up in my head.   Woburn - half an hour up the road; Longleat - two and a half hours.   The silver lining is that Longleat is close to one of my oldest and dearest friends, so an ideal opportunity for a flying visit.

Down the A303, past Stonehenge, which is barely visible in the darkness.  From the road it always looks far smaller than it should.   Like Spinal Tap for real.   And then off on country lanes carving into the deepest Dorset countryside.   It's hard to see in the darkness - dazzled by on-coming SUV headlights, and confounded by twists and turns, steep hills and valleys.   There's a BMW right on my tail and I feel pressurised to go faster than I'd like.   Finally it turns off and I'm on another tiny road, behind a little van.   Conscious of the way I'd felt, I make sure to keep a bit of distance, but it's so much easier to allow someone else to pick out the way forward with their headlights.  Just to fall in behind, and follow the cheery red beacons of their tail lights.   I suspect that's exactly what BMW driver was doing too.   So much more comfortable to let someone else take responsibility for the path.   I'm not going to get metaphorical, but, well...   Ho hum.

Emma has acquired a dog (actually, a bitch, but that sounds wrong).   After eating, laughing, talking, we take her for a walk in the pitch black.  No street lights here.   But the most extraordinary starry sky.  All the constellations I can recognise (the Plough - obviously - and Orion's Belt - which looks far closer than normal) and loads I've never seen before.   The Seven Sisters (I think).   Sagittarius (I think).   The sky is crammed full of stars, bright and big, like we're in the desert.   So busy gawping that when Tess decides to take a shit, we don't notice exactly where.   And we haven't brought a torch.   So Emma has to use her bagged hand as a heat sensor, hovering over the likely areas on the verge until she feels some telltale radiating warmth.   A completely silent village except for two people weeping with laughter in the middle of a dark lane.   Success, and with weighted bag swinging Carnaby Street-style, we blunder back through black to the lights of the house.

I sleep in a room up under the eaves, still and peaceful except for the scuttling of small things in the thatch above.   Such deep quietness that you can pick up on the tiny things you might otherwise miss.

I can't get a mobile signal here.   Good.

Day 73: Blog Master

Today a Lakeland catalogue arrives.  It is full of things I did not know existed.  Mainly things that appear to be deeply anti-spoon.

THE BOILED EGG LIFTER  (Seriously.)  I quote: 'the welcome arrival of the Egg Lifter allows you to lift out your ready-boiled egg from water without chasing it around the pan.' 

(Good.  We are liberated from egg-chasing.  It's been a nightmare.  Hasn't it?)

THE TEA TOOL  I'm going to have to quote again.  'Pop a tea bag in the cage, place it in your cup and pour the hot water in, give it a stir and press the plunger to squeeze the bag, releasing all the flavour and excess water.  Then, pull the plunger to drop the bag in the bin. 

(Thank God.  No more risk of 'touching the bag'.)

So, throw away your spoons. 



And while you're at it, your vegetable peeler.  Simply no need:-

APPLE MASTER - 'Also great for potatoes.  Just fix the food on the prongs, clamp in place, and turn the handle - what could be easier?'

(Not jizzing around with a traditional peeler, that's for certain!  Way too complicated.  Leave that for carrots and other things... that don't fit on the Apple Master.)



This is a dangerous catalogue.  It sucks you in.  I start off weeping with laughter, but by page three, I'm actually considering a 'poachpod'.  And I'd have an Apple Master, just for the intoxicating power.  I'm a sucker for anything that promises mastery (Route Master, Stair Master, Pie Master, Web Master).  Sticking 'master' on the end of anything definitely makes it more exciting.

Thank you, Lakeland, for enlivening a bland day of simple achievements.  One of which was a stew.

You know what's coming. 

Yes.  Stew Master. 

Day 72: Leap of Faith

I have never been to a ballet.  That changes today, as I take myself to Sadler's Wells for Matthew Bourne's 'Nutcracker!'.  I'm hopeful that the inclusion of the exclamation mark will mean something exciting!  Or interesting!  See the difference an exclamation mark makes.   Swan Lake!   Sleeping Beauty!   Giselle!  (Ballet knowledge exhausted.)  Sadler's Wells is baldly ugly, but fit for purpose, with a good rake.  I am in the circle, next to an American family.  Dad is big and loud and knows EVERYTHING.  He starts with a breakdown of the English class system.  Then onto science and litigation - and how the M&M thrown by his young son could have hit a violinist, with grave consequences.  Wreaking havoc on instrument, body and psyche, and leading to financial ruin for the thrower through court-sought damages.  All because of the power of gravity. 

Curtain up.  Humorous, satisfyingly staged, good to look at.  People so lithe and bendy and strong.  My world, like most, is very verbal.  It's fascinating to see the focus shift entirely onto the physical - whether it's athletics, or dance or clowning.  I wonder what it feels like to inhabit a body that's such a powerfully expressive instrument.  Of course, all bodies are expressive - even in rigidity - but to be able to communicate so fluently just through movement must feel truly amazing.

The first half goes very quickly - always a good sign.  Dad does not agree, as he postulates that the humour and imaginative design are there to make up for the inadequacy of the dancers.  'Nothing will hide the fact that they can't leap' he adds gravely, spooning ice-cream into his megaphone.  I catch his eye.


Start of the second half, and I silently will the dancers to leap.  But I'm not confident, as it doesn't feel like that sort of choreography.  It's witty and snappy, and leaps would be out of place - rather too Nureyev for 'Nutcracker!'  Just as I've pretty much given up hope, ALL the male dancers, bare-chested and in white trousers, LEAP one by one through a massive floral heart.  Like weightless gazelles.  It is a glorious camp celebration of leaping.  Ironic, sarcastic, British leaping.  I catch Dad's eye - he looks away immediately.  WIN.

I am delighted to see that some people have dressed up.  I spot a floor length velvet coat AND a spangled bolero.  That's going some for a matinee.  I imagine there are few occasions that could not be improved by a spangled bolero.

I must face the truth.   Nothing will hide the fact that I can't leap.  But in my head  I am soaring through a floral heart.  In a spangled bolero.  (Ironically, of course.)