Day 237: Mawkish Delight

Wake up to find my car covered in a thick layer of fine dust.  A Saharan dust storm carried over seas and deposited overnight.  The desert comes to my door step.  How exotic and glamorous.  It's like someone's left a bar of Turkish Delight under my windscreen wiper.  Only more authentic, and less sickly. 

In my search for a picture of Fry's Turkish Delight, I have come across a still from the original iconic 1980s advert - strapline 'Full of Eastern Promise'.  Never has a man looked less Turkish.  The most Eastern this Promise gets is probably Essex.

Day 236: Dies Caniculares

Disrespectful or stupid?

Dog days are come early.  I am stupid and slow with heat.  And it's not just me.  This morning some rabbits stay put as I run past them with a scant metre's margin.  Like we're in a scene from the Teletubbies.  I feel mildly insulted.  Although I pose no actual threat (I am not a heron), they are not to know that.  It would be appropriate and respectful to fear me, on a size basis if nothing else.

The fields are full of hay bales and clouds of tiny midges.  I eat quite a lot as I run (serves me right for being a mouth-breather). 

I don't know where my mobile is.  I'm not wearing a watch.  Or shoes.  If I were a rabbit, and a human ran past, I suspect I'd stay put.         

Day 235: Delete History

My mind has been wiped clean by a run in the heat and humidity of the late afternoon.  It's hard work in the stifling atmosphere.  Like breathing through a duvet.  Force myself up hills and do not give in to the short cuts. 

Back home I'm speechless and raining sweat (no lady-glow here). 


Cool down.  Shower.  And now for the pay-off. 

Endorphin-buzz and silence in my head.  Absolute peace. 

This is why I run.

Day 234: The Path of Least Resistance

Like this (thanks,
Farrow'n Ball)

Today I pass a car - a Vauxhall - that is the most unusual colour.  A flat, non-metallic, mushroomy grey-brown.  Not an obvious choice, but a brilliant one, as it is exactly the colour of ambient car dirt.  A car that will never need washing.  A guilt-free car! 

A great example of working with what's already there.  I recently saw an interview with an allotment owner who didn't waste energy digging weeds up.  He simply cut them off at the base, allowing the roots to die back, naturally aerating and composting the soil.  Double win. 

I intend to adopt this approach wherever possible. 

OMDB

This is in NO way an excuse for living like a slattern.  Not at all.  I mean, it's not as if, for instance, I'd seriously consider a brown bathroom suite. 

Obviously not. 

 

Day 233: Posturing

A group discussion about the importance of eye contact.  General consensus is that 'sustained' eye contact increases your level of presence.  So I ask them at what point does 'sustained' tip over into creepy and stalkerish?   The reply?  'When it's combined with bad posture.'  I was so surprised and delighted by this that coffee came out of my nose.

Because it's pretty accurate.  If you stand like a hero, at the very worst, sustained eye contact seems challenging.  Stand like the shopping centre pervert (I'm assuming all provincial towns are similar to my hometown in having at least three of these), and at best, sustained eye contact smacks of lotion in a basket being lowered into a well.

Makes me think of Jimeoin's brilliant routine about eyebrows - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O6KBPGQPswQ - which is always a good thing.

Day 232: Broken Duck

Over the last couple of months, I have been watching the unfurling of bird babies in the park.  Started with tiny moorhens.  Then goslings and cygnets.  Finally, ducklings.  The goslings are now definitely gawky and adolescent.  As are the cygnets. 

And the moorhens?  Only seen once.  One morning there they were - six tiny balls of dark fuzz scrambling over a messy nest.  The next morning, the nest was empty.  I hoped they were swimming somewhere nearby, but I had a terrible suspicion they were not...

Last week I saw ducklings.  A string of about seven, fluffed up and floating in a line, like bathtime toys.  No sign of them now. 

Elevenses

Meanwhile, the herons are looking VERY PLUMP...  Today I checked out my suspicions.  A quick internet search reveals that herons will eat ANYTHING.  Rabbits.  Squirrels.  Definitely ducklings.  Whole.  Down in one.  There is some graphic YouTube footage that proves this.  For the herons, the nests are like snack bowls.  And the ducklings are cashew nuts, or Japanese rice crackers.  Very more-ish. 

I know the herons are just doing what comes naturally, but the park is a sadder place for the lack of ducklings.

There are Canada geese in the park.  They stay close to their young, and hiss aggressively if you get anywhere near. 

Makes sense.  When there are herons out there, you've got to stand up for yourself.

Day 231: Wee Dog

Today the weather is worthy of Edinburgh in August.  Just the same humid/cold/sunny/rainy quality.  So not entirely surprised to hear bagpipes.  But geographically confused, as this is Hertfordshire not Scotland.  I then turn a corner to come across Big Rory, an eight foot Highlander, and Ochie, his dog - both of whom are taking part in the St Albans festival.  (Not entirely sure what the St Albans festival is about - but today the offerings are diverse.  Various religious groups canvassing in the town centre (songs, leaflets and free healing), plus some very large plastic flowers (about as high as lamp posts - in fact, probably lamp posts in flower costumes), and then Big Rory and Ochie.  Who are definitely the highlight for me.) 

The photo does not show the full detail of Ochie's costume, which includes a very big fur fabric penis and ball bag.  Which is obviously hilarious but also practical, as it accommodates a bladder full of 'wee'.  Ochie rolls on the floor, mutely inviting passersby to pat him, and then lets fly with the 'wee' which arcs high and wide, catching all in its path.  Shrieks and mirth in the shopping centre. 

Big Rory.  Wee Ochie. 

Happy Saturday, everybody.

Day 230: No Poodling

A visit to the hairdressers.  As always, the slightly pointless exchange:-

Natalie: 'What are we doing today?'

Me: 'Same as always.  You know - cutting some stuff off.  I can't see.'

Natalie: 'OK.'

It's dry.  It'll do.

She's got the measure of me.  So much so that when she dries my hair, she doesn't use a brush.  She just dries it.  Like you'd dry a wet dog or a child.  It works for both us.  I don't like blow-drys - just look all wiggy and weird on me.  And it makes life easy for her.  Good. 

Took me years to realise that I could dictate how I would like my hair dried.  I remember one notable occasion when the initial consultation went like this:-

Hairdresser: 'What are we doing today?'

Me: 'Just dried, please.'

Hairdresser: 'No problem.  We'll just bump it up at the back, bring the detail forward - but nothing too vampish.'

I was too taken by surprise to do anything.  Except to sit, mute and helpless, and take a terrible poodling.   

No more.  We do it my way.  Less poodle; more hedge.

Day 229: Longest Day of the Drear

Druids and fluids

The summer solstice.  Bedraggled druids at Stonehenge are wandering around in damp robes, as somewhere, behind the clouds, the sun rises.

As the wheel of the year turns, I celebrate by putting out the recycling.  It's related.  In a thematically cyclical way.  Not as committed as schlepping down the A303 with a horn bugle and a rowan staff, but a lot easier.    

Day 228: Running Time

An afternoon trip to the cinema with Jude.  It's the Everyman in Belsize Park, which is one of those excellent art cinemas that has just one screen and big, squashy sofa seats.  We are the only customers - surprising, but only slightly, as I recognise that most people have sensible things to do on a Wednesday afternoon. 

We make the most of exclusive patronage by running oppositional laps of the cinema, passing with high fives right in front of the screen (obviously).  It's something I've often been tempted to do, but I've stopped myself, out of respect for other cinema-goers. 

I've had those urges before.  At school during assembly I fought a constant internal battle against the overwhelming desire to suddenly stand up, shout 'Bollocks!' and sit back down again. For no contextual reason. I didn't have a particular problem with assembly. I just really wanted to know what it would feel like.  I am delighted to know how it feels to run full pelt round a cinema (disproportionately enjoyable).

Wouldn't have been so much fun if I'd just run on my own.  You need to have a partner in crime (thank you, Jude).  One evening at the Edinburgh Fringe I suddenly developed an urge to skip.  I said as much, and Jana immediately said 'Let's do it!'  So we speed-skipped - all the way along the Cow Barn and into Bristo Square.  For no reason.  Like when cows suddenly gallop round fields.  Just because they can.  It was strangely exhilarating.

The film was interesting and enjoyable.  But it didn't come close to running laps round the cinema.           

Day 227: Free Kicks

At Moorgate this morning I am handed some free toothpaste.  It's nothing personal.  Not like giving deodorant to the office stinker.  It's a promo thing - and it's decent toothpaste.  Sensodyne.  Which is expensive (I know this as I am a martyr to neuralgia).  Morning win. 

At Farringdon this lunchtime I am handed some free Coke Zero.  It's nothing personal.  Not like giving low-cal products to the office fatty.  It's a promo thing.  And I was hot and thirsty, and the can was ice-cold.  Lunchtime win. 

Afternoon spent with Jude in Exmouth Market.  I tell her about my wins, and we remember a day back in December when she managed to score free chocolate cake in Highgate Woods and then free holly on Hampstead Heath (see Day 48).  Today's freebies are nowhere near as free range and unexpected - level one to her level three - but still gratefully received. 

On the way home, I realise that I am travelling at peak time.  So I will need to pay an excess fare on my ticket.  Annoying.  I get to the barrier at St Albans station:-

Me:  'Can I pay for a peak extension on my ticket, please?'

Ticket inspector:  'No.'

Me:  'Oh.  Why not?'

Ticket inspector:  'Just because.'

And with that, he lets me through the barrier.  This is not a promo.  This is a massive, confusing, unexpected, free range and BRILLIANT evening win.  I can see level three.  I can almost touch it.  Huzzah.     

Day 226: Pyrrhic Refund

A visit to a shop to pick up some goods that I've ordered online.  I like this as a system.  No money wasted on delivery charges, no 'sorry we missed you' cards, and subsequent trips to the parcel depot.  All good.  When I arrive at the collection desk, there's a woman waiting to be served.  She's red with rage, and wastes no time in telling me that she's been waiting for a VERY LONG TIME.  She rings the service bell again to prove her point.  I ask her exactly how long.  FIVE (APOPLECTIC) MINUTES!!!  She bangs on the bell again and does some ranting at me.  I make mild, acknowledging noises. 

Eventually a member of staff turns up.  She apologises and fetches the woman's order.  Too late. 

Rage Woman: 'NO!  I'm so DISGUSTED with the service here that I DON'T WANT any of this stuff now.  On PRINCIPLE!  NONE of it.  I want a REFUND.'

Staff: 'Certainly, madam.'  (Awkward pause.)  'Unfortunately I can't do a refund at this desk.  This is Collections.  You'll need to queue up at Refunds over there.'       

I am slightly concerned that Rage Woman's eyes are actually going to pop out of her head.  She is so enraged now that she can't speak, but snatches the goods up, and burns a trail of righteous ire through bras and pants to Refunds. 

At this stage she could have just accepted the goods (that she'd ordered and paid for) and she'd have been out of the building, situation over.  But it's clear that her agenda now is not 'to get stuff' but 'to get cross'.  So now she has to do some extra waiting (so she can get even crosser), just so she can get a refund to prove her point (not that a shop this size will give a tiny shit), and she doesn't even end up with the stuff she wanted in the first place.  A Pyrrhic victory.  A nose cut off; a face spited.  

Or am I?

I wonder if this incident is the final straw on a morning of numerous outrages?  Or is being made to wait five minutes really so insulting it cannot be born? 

If the former, I understand.  It happens.  If the latter, then I am clearly a doormat.  And First Capital Connect are grossly insulting me on an almost daily basis, laughing in the face of my placid acceptance.  Oh well...

Day 225: Chocolate Wire

Is it wrong to watch three episodes of 'The Wire' back-to-back, while eating half a packet of dark chocolate and sour cherry cookies? 

No.  I didn't think so. 

Thanks for the reassurance.

Day 224: Wind in the Willows

The weather cannot decide today.  I keep postponing my run because of apocalyptic dark clouds that disappear and then reappear as soon as I bend down to lace my trainers.  Eventually I get tired of the sky crying wolf, and I go anyway.  The wind is manic and capricious.  Powerful gusts, from all different directions.  The tall willows beside the river are thrashing around wildly, and several big branches are down, split and jagged.  It's all very elemental.  Unpredictable and adrenaliny, with the potential of trees falling like nine-pins.  There's nobody else around (unsuprisingly) as I cut through the fields to Gorhambury, and the clouds grow ever darker.  Some fat drops of rain fall, but are no match for the drying abilities of the extreme wind. 

Reach home with my ears singing, and my face stinging with wind-burn.  I think it's safe to say that any cobwebs that were hanging around have been blown away.

Day 223: Out of Order

Today the station toilet is closed.  On the door there is a sign.  'Out of Order.  Apologies for the inconvenience.'

I'm suspect there is a pun buried within this.  Something about the main issue being that you're not actually IN any CONVENIENCE.  Convenience as in 'public convenience'.  You get the general idea. 

If you want to craft it into something more polished, please do so.  If you don't, I fully understand.

I'm putting no more effort in, after a day with a colleague who deserves her very own 'Out of Order' sign.  I didn't even get an apology.  The toilet has better manners.

Day 222: Pasty or Lazy?

Bunting

An attempt to buy a bikini for the up-and-coming holiday.  I am pasty and heavy-limbed under the unflattering lights in the cubicle.  Whenever I try on any sort of swimwear, I always like to heighten the glamour by leaving my socks on (a very strong and sexy look). 

Top marks to TK Maxx, who have security-stapled tops and bottoms together, making them impossible to try on, unless you are crouched.  In socks, with the lumpen whiteness, this would be quite a special sight.  Niche.  I notice that this year, everything seems to come with a pelmet.  Bikini bottoms have a frilly skirt - it seems that even genitals must have bunting in 2012.

After the novelty wears off, I develop cubicle fatigue, and decide to go food shopping instead.  I'm looking for some 'Lazy Lemongrass' - minced up, and ready to use.  I can't see any, so I ask a shop assistant, who looks utterly bemused. 

So bemused that I wonder whether she thinks I am making a value judgement about the lemongrass.  Lazy lemongrass.  As opposed to motivated broccoli.  Or diligent bacon. 

Shop Assistant: 'Well, we've got lemongrass paste...  But it's not lazy...'

Sorry.  My mistake.  Pasty, not lazy. 

Of course, some of us are pasty AND lazy...

Day 221: Goodbye Muriel

Today my friend rings to tell me that his mother died this morning.  He sat with her and held her hand through afternoon, evening and night as she slowly faded.  She was ill and she'd had enough.  Although he wanted to be there, he admitted that there were times in the long vigil when it all became too intense.

I remember this at my father's deathbed.  At times the presence of the person that you love becomes secondary to the presence of death, and there's a pressing need for you to flee - to get as far away as possible from this terrible, final thing.  I did not fear his corpse, although I thought I might.  I found it peaceful, and natural.  But I found the process of his death terrifying.  As he struggled, I kept expecting him to sit bolt upright, open his eyes, and say awful things.    And it wouldn't have been my father speaking - it would have been something else inhabiting the shell of his body.  Oddly, my brother had exactly the same thoughts.  My mother said that you could 'see the ancestors in his face'.  I know what she meant.  His face was no longer his - it seemed different.  Ancient and timeless.  I think it looked as all faces do when the soul is leaving the body.  Reverting to factory settings.

Any brush with death stops you in your tracks, and reminds you of exactly what matters, and what doesn't.  And why you should keep on breathing.      

RIP Muriel.     

Day 220: First Law of Freelancing

Driven by lack of vitamin D to book a holiday.  Feels shocking to cancel work - given that the next few months are looking pretty scanty.  But also very liberating. 

It is only a matter of hours after making the booking that work offers start coming in.  For the period I will be away.  This makes me laugh because it is so reassuringly in line with the cosmic order of things - that the minute you make yourself unavailable, you will be inundated with offers. 

This is the first law of freelancing.  Irritating, but also good.  It seems to stir things up, and keep things moving.  You don't need to book a holiday - you just need some alternative focus of energy.  Years ago, before I fully understood this law, I experienced a really bad work drought.  It had me on my knees, weeping into the carpet.  Evenutally I got cramp/bored, and decided to paint the kitchen.  I think I was on my second brush stroke when the phone rang, offering me a job that covered my living expenses for the year. 

Involve the brush

The key element is that you cannot fake it, by sneaking past the action to the pay-off.  Just THINKING about painting the kitchen, with your eye on the primary gain of breaking your deadlock, will not work.  You have to fully commit to and focus on your new activity.  Buy the paint.  Put the overalls on.  Start.  Then and only then will the magic happen. 

Not needed

I don't understand why this works.  It must be something to do with energy and positive action.  Undoubtedly Prof Brian Cox could explain it in quantum mechanical terms, but I think it's more important just to know that it DOES work.

Seen it happen time after time.  For me and for others.

I recommend it.  At the very least, you'll get a better-looking kitchen.

Day 219: Cake Strategy

Through the rain to Foyles on Charing Cross Road.  A meeting over coffee and carrot cake.  'Please, you must all tuck in.  Frankly, I'm only interested in the icing', says Ivo, nonchalantly backing up his claim with some focused spoon work.  (I should point out that Ivo is not a ten-year-old on exeat, but a very influential middle-aged man.)

It is my cultural heritage to believe that you are required to plough through the carrot cake, however dry it is, to get to the icing.  With any plate of food, I will eat the thing that I least like first, to get it out of the way.  And save the best bit for last.  It has never OCCURRED to me that I could just skip directly to the good stuff. 

Interesting.  I could have saved myself a lot of unpleasant mouthfuls.  Literally and metaphorically. 

Day 218: Leaking Fuel

Today I make the poor decision to go to the supermarket.  I have forgotten that St Albans is hosting a half-marathon, and affiliated 8k and 5k fun runs.  Roads are closed, and I am stuck in traffic gridlock.  I try back routes - gridlock as well.  I am dangerously low on petrol.  This is not good, but there's no point turning back.  It will take just as long to get home.  I think when I crossed the roundabout at the garage, I crossed the Rubicon.  I just didn't realise it at the time. 

Finally make it to the supermarket, but there are no parking spaces.  At all.  I have never experienced this - not even on Christmas Eve.  Go to the petrol station, in hopes that spaces will become available when I'm done.  Four of the eight pumps are out of action, so there are massive queues.  There's quite a bit of ambient rage going on. Fill up - and become aware that my clever locking fuel cap will not lock.  It makes all the right noises, but is sitting on the outlet rather like a biscuit balanced on a cup of tea - charming, but precarious.  Cannot faff around, there are impatient cars behind me.  Have to drive off with fifty quid's worth of petrol probably sloshing out of the tank. 

Still no spaces.  Park illegally.  Do shopping - worry about petrol evaporating out of tank.  Surprised that the supermarket is relatively quiet.  Realise that the parking spaces are being unfairly used by the runners.  Grit teeth.  Shop.  Buy emergency fuel cap.  I'm not sorry to possess one of these.  I might use it for my my mouth.  (Not in a gimpy way - just for stoppering up when energy would be better conserved than wasted.)

Try to get home.  Gridlock.  Try different routes.  Gridlock.  Feel like getting out of the car, lying on the verge and giving up.  Grind teeth and gears. 

A trip that should have taken half an hour takes over two. 

I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.  WHY CAN I NOT FLY, FFS?? 

(OK, OK.  I hear myself.  This seems like an ideal opportunity for the UEFC.  Shhh, now.)

Day 217: Old Baggage

Like this, but nude and in bag-form

Wake up haunted by last night's dream.  In which I have to carry around two rucksacks that aren't actually bags - they're two balled-up, naked old men, gurning and helpless, all white skin, dirt and patchy hair.  They each have a carrying handle at the back of their neck - like the one that rucksacks have at the top. 

I repeatedly forget that I have to carry them round with me, and then I am reminded when they start whinging.  They bang into my legs and slow me down, and they don't smell very nice...

It's a great relief to be awake, and to find that the old man bags have disappeared.  Like those dreams where you murder someone, and the massive weight that falls from your shoulders when you wake and find you haven't.  (Oh.  Just me?) 

I suppose I should give some thought to what the old man bags represent.  I suspect, as with most of these things, they are reflections of the bits of me that I dislike and would prefer to externalise/abandon in left luggage somewhere. 

I know what my meditation teacher would say.  She would say that I need to 'sit with' the old man bags, and show them compassion, rather than banishing them. 

Wonder if there's any chance of getting them to take a bath first?  And perhaps putting some clothes on?  Pants, at the very least...

Day 216: Être et Avoir

Soho Curzon is one of my favourite cinemas - a combination of location and more importantly, the best selection of films available. Narrative, cinematography, sometimes subtitles - and not a cartoon chipmunk to be seen.  Which is great, but only when I'm in Soho.  Today I discover that Curzon Cinemas have an on-demand service.  This is brilliant news.  I am saved from the dreary programming at Watford Vue. 

So I treat myself straightaway to 'Être et Avoir' - a documentary film shot in 2002, charting a year in a tiny school in rural Auvergne.  There's only one teacher, and a mixed class of ages from four to twelve.  The classroom is an ordered, safe place, where the children start to get to grips with the realities of life - concentration, disagreements, injustice, loss - all through small-scale dramas.  The stolen rubber.  The paint-covered hands.  The peer-critique of attempts at writing the number 7.

A beautifully-shot bubble-world, for the bargain price of two quid. 

The antithesis of those sugar-rush, attention deficit, action-crammed films.  And I don't have to sit next to someone eating a dustbin of popcorn.  Result. 

Day 215: Hospitality

An unexpected* visit to Watford General A&E.  I am not the patient - just the transport/vending-machine bitch.  It's been a fair few years since I've been in an A&E department.  I'd forgotten how grim they are. 

Endangered

First hurdle is trying to secure a wheelchair.  Abandon the hobbling victim in the car park, and speed to the reception area.  Have to wait behind a line, while three members of staff have a chat about a fourth person, who is not there.  I jig up and down on my line.  A woman behind me can't contain herself and, with an apologetic glance, CROSSES THE LINE.  She's anxiously trying to find out whether someone with appendicitis has been taken to theatre.  This does not go down well.  'WAIT BEHIND THE LINE!'

Eventually I am seen.  All I want is the damn wheelchair, but we have to do a bunch of paperwork first.  Finally, we're done.  'The wheelchair?'  'Oh, yes...  I'm sure I saw one recently.  Marie, is there a wheelchair back there?  No?  Oh.  Well, you could try looking in Minors.  There are often chairs lying around there.  Or failing that, Acute Admissions.'  I'm off - firstly to Minors, where I go through 'Strictly No Admittance' doors, and past curtained cubicles, charts and equipment.  No chair.  Then Acute Admissions - no chair.  Back to A&E reception, to a laconic response.  'No luck?  I could ring a porter, if you'd like?'  Five minutes later, and it's quite clear that a porter will not be forthcoming.  That's underfunding for you.  Back to Plan A - the supported hop.

Lots of waiting.  Oddly frothy machine tea.  Warm chocolate bars.  A disturbing visit to a loo that rivals a Sunday Glastonbury portaloo.  A trip to feed the meter.  There's a girl standing in the car park, smoking a cigarette.  She's attached to a portable drip, and wearing a leopard print coat and a bored expression.  Wish I had a camera, but I left the house in such a hurry I don't even have my phone.   Back on the seats lining the corridors, watching patients being wheeled past.  Many are elderly, small and vulnerable - isolated on their parapeted trolley beds, lost amidst the tubes and the oxygen tanks. 

As ever, I am incredibly thankful for the NHS.  But it's always good to leave a hospital.  I used to have a teacher who was fond of saying 'If health is not one of your priorities, when will it be?'  He had a point.  While there's nothing more joyless than a healthorexic, there's no need to run full pelt towards ill-health.  Resolve to be a better person.  Again... 

(* Unnecessary - is there ever any other kind?  Who plans a visit to A&E?  Stupid.)

Day 214: Wisdom of Rihanna

I leave the house twice today.  On both occasions it rains brutally hard within minutes.  The downpour is accompanied by gusts of wind that make a mockery of my umbrella.  Now, I've got a reasonable degree of umbrella-mastery.  I know how to angle the dome into the wind, so it's doesn't get flipped inside out.  But there's not much you can do about a weak ratchet.  A soon as the wind applies any pressure the umbrella folds up, swallowing my head like a Venus Flytrap*.  I return home and plan an umbrella-buying excursion, and then have to sit down for a bit, just to acclimatise to the glamour and frantic pace of my day. 

(* This wouldn't happen to Rihanna.  She has three (see right).  A main one (a. umbrella), and two back-ups (b. ella, c. ella).  I didn't have her down as a planner, but this is impressive work.)

My sister calls.  (This is a rare event - we speak a couple of times a year.)  She is anxious.  This is normal.  She suffers from paranoid schizophrenia, and is prone to anxiety attacks on a major scale.  But she doesn't normally call me.  She normally calls my mother. 

And here's the problem.  Mum is not picking up.  V has been trying for the last five hours (and that probably means every five minutes).  I reassure her - maybe Mum is out, or there's a fault with her landline.  And I'm pretty sure that's the case. 

Practical

But then the internal dialogue starts.  What if she's lying at the bottom of the stairs with a broken leg?  What if she's had an asthma attack and can't reach her inhaler?  What if she's licked a live wire/impaled herself on a clothes horse/fallen into boiling jam?  While I'm faffing about making excuses... 

Should I jump in the car and thrash round the M25 at rush hour just in case?  If only I could ring her neighbour - but I don't have his number, and I only know him as Graham (not much good for directory enquiries).

So I ring my brother in Spain.  (This is a rare event - we speak a couple of times a year.)  Perhaps he has Graham's number.  Or surname.

Just as I get through, V rings.  She's finally spoken to Mum - who does indeed have a line fault.  Relief. 

Rihanna would never have found herself in this situation. 

I think we can all learn from her.  Have an umbrella, but always keep a couple of ellas in hand.  Just in case.  

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.