Chilblains, Chilblains, Chilblains

Toast with strawberry jam; toast with bramble jam and two clementines.

One of the great disadvantages of living in the cold north is the chilblains. Of course I do all the wrong things: plunging my icy feet into hot baths, warming them on my hotwater bottle at night, practically putting them in the fire in the evenings. Still, even when I try my very hardest to avoid such temptations I seem to suffer from them. I feel like I've fallen out of the wrong century. It doesn't seem to be a very modern affliction. Though I suppose most people nowadays aren't obliged to wear five layers indoors.

I'll never be James Bond

Shredded wheats and clementines.

It turns out you can't join MI5 if you haven't lived in the UK for nine out of the past ten years. Foiled! Perhaps the CIA would have me instead. I expect, though, that being a dual national rather rules me out of any sort of espionage (to say nothing of the fact that "blogging" about it -- I still need to put this word in quotes to minimise its obnoxiousness -- quite definitely constitutes a major infringement of the "tell only your loved ones" guidelines).

Ho hum. Almost certainly just as well. Everything that fiction ("literary," cinematic and televisual) tells me indicates that things always go rather shaped like a pear for lady spies.

All My Favourites

Shredded wheats and clementines.

The only person missing from this is Alan Rickman; but perhaps that would be too much actorly magic.  Am very much looking forward to seeing this in approximately one year when it finally makes it to the Portree cinema. The rest of you may see it in February I believe.

Elementary!

Porridge.

I can't believe I've only just cottoned on the BBC's Sherlock -- it's good gripping stuff. One of the benefits of coming to these things late though is that I still haven't seen the first series. And I suppose there's the new Guy Ritchie one too; but I thought the last one was a little too pleased with itself. Still, needs must.

An Elephant Never Forgets

Co-op shredded wheats and a pear.

Sometimes I worry about my memory. I hardly remember anything about being little, excepting instances of guilt, idiocy and a few bouts of illness. Specifically: pushing my sister (gently) down the stairs when I couldn't think of anything further to say and I realised I was advantageously placed (it was a short flight, I promise); shutting my fingers in the hinge of a door because I wanted to know how the hinge worked; shutting myself in the coal hole because I wanted to know how dark it was in there with the door completely closed (very); getting a part from a wind-up clock lodged in my nostril (necessitating a 6-7-hour round trip to Raigmore Hospital); and finally, being struck down with the measles at my Grandmother's house and her insisting that I wear a scarf on my head for weeks afterwards as she was worried I'd go deaf otherwise.

Other than that, I remember bizarre things like the round seat that was in the drawing room (evidently these are called "sociables") and my Great Grandmother's car. Or at least I thought I remembered this car, vividly, until I was describing it to my father the other day and he hadn't the foggiest idea what I was talking about; which brings me to this fascinating article I read in The Guardian today about the unreliability of memories.

Mashed Potatoes, Dribbling and Arthritis

Co-op's own shredded wheat thingys and banana.

I had bangers and mash for supper tonight. Yum. I've shared before my irrepressible need to sing the Bodger and Badger song every time I make mashed potatoes. I wish it wasn't so.

When I'm old and dribbling and don't know who I am anymore, I'll still remember this flaming theme tune. Forget Barney the Dinosaur, this is a far more effective instrument of torture.

To old and dribbling and not knowing who I am, I ought also to add arthritis,;which my father helpfully suggested I may already be suffering from when I complained about my left index finger hurting in the cold, and always taking longer to warm up (it's the one I slammed in a door).

No Breakfast

Winnie the Pooh sniffing out some condensed milk.

I didn't get around to breakfast this morning, which is most unusual for me. Perhaps I ought to have photographed my lunch, but I'd entirely gobbled it up by the time the thought crossed my mind.

Not to worry though, I've more than made up for any calorific losses in the morning by indulging my passion for condensed milk. Not an entire tin (for once), but a sufficiency shall we say.

French Children Don't Throw Food

Toast and raspberry jam.

French children may not throw food, but they are hard-wired to protest. During my days as a "jeune fille au pair" I remember sitting in the garden on a sunny day and watching as a group of preposterously Gallic children marched around in single file brandishing sticks and chanting "on dit non, on dit non." The youngest striker was about 18-months-old, and barely talking. The cause of their protest was not evident.

Rain, rain, rain

Weetabix.

I know it's predictably British to talk about the weather, but I'm actually amazed there's any sea water left to evaporate and fall as precipitation on this here island. The ground is water-logged. I exaggerate not. Everywhere I step, it squelches. The whole garden is a bog. Is this the end of the world?

First Snowdrops

Toast with raspberry jam, and an apple.

I spotted my first snowdrops whilst taking the dog on his nightly rounds. Only a few were in flower, the rest were just little green shoots pushing up from the soggy, soggy ground and hinting: "spring is coming"...

Damn you Zooey Deschanel...

Found the card reader! Toast and raspberry jam.

... And your ridiculously ruly hair. Every time her perfect locks fill the screen I'm reminded of the inadequacy of my own capricious mane. Miss Deschanel wouldn't be nearly so manic pixie dream girlish if she was contending with extremely fine, cowpat-coloured hair that acts as a reliable barometer.

Barnet envy aside, I did enjoy rewatching (500) Days of Summer this evening.

Cables Cables Everywhere

Sorry for the late posting, I've had no internet for the last twenty-four hours.

It turns out you can lift an awful lot of floorboards and wiggle an awful lot of cables and still not know where the wires for the plug you want to move originate from. We figured it out eventually. (I say we, my role was mostly cable wiggler, screwdriver holder and comic relief: mon Papa did the figuring out.)

Still, after a great deal of furniture moving, drill-wielding and tea drinking, we now have a plug in the corner of the morning room. I bet you're all thrilled to hear that.

Oopsy

A live orchid that was not left in my care(lessness).

Still no sign of the card reader for the breakfast pictures, and ... five days into 2012 and one of my resolutions (better blogger) has already fallen by the wayside.

In other news, it turns out that the clips that were holding the orchid that I forgot to water on to its supporting canes are actually rather good hair grips. I think they call this a silver lining. Not sure that my father would agree (he was rather vexed to discover that I had killed just about all of the house plants in his absence). It's just when its pouring with rain outside, one rather forgets that it isn't raining indoors too. In fact, in parts of our house it does also rain indoors -- but there are no plants there. Worse luck. Mea Culpa. Hortus Siccus. Amo, Amas, Amat.

Lost Count

Now seems a good time to dispense with the breakfast numbering, as I seem to have lost count.

Had a lovely walk out to Oronsay today, accross a tidal causeway. The tide wasn't very far out when we got there, we tried to run for it, we got wet. Very wet. But then that's half the fun of Skye walks. Especially when you know there's a warm fire to go home to.

P.S. after last night's game of 1981 Trivial pursuit, I can advise that -- if in doubt -- the answer is Brazil or Boston. Also, if you answer Humphrey Bogart enough times, eventually it will be the answer.

P.P.S. Sorry for the lack of photo again today. I did take one, but the camera is a long way from the computer and who knows where the card reader is... I will post it tomorrow.

Happy New Year!

That's right, I haven't dropped off the face of the planet, I've just been a useless blogger. Partly this is down to a surfeit of fun (and a minor bout of ill health that saw me go entirely breakfastless) and partly because, the longer I left it, the more daunting the task of smooshing together all my photos in a easily viewable form became...

As you will notice, I have not risen to the task, nor -- let's be realistic, am I likely to. Instead, I promise to be a diligent photo uploader and blogger in 2012: it will be my resolution. You'll just have to imagine what I've been eating for the last fortnight or so. I will say, there were a goodly number of Weetabix.

I'm sitting by the fire now gearing up to a play a game of 1981 edition Trivial Pursuit with some friends in which we will all be equally disadvantaged because most of us weren't alive then.