Lost or Stolen or Strayed: One Mother

French toast, bacon, strawberries, raspberries & maple syrup

This weekend I have found myself relating a good deal to James James Morrison Morrison with his vanishing mother…

"Disobedience" was my absolutely favourite poem in When We Were Very Young. I remember reading it over and over again -- giggling through the last verse, my favourite: "(Now then, very softly)". It occurs to me that I may simply have, early on, identified an alarmingly errant streak in my meandering mother. And while perhaps I don't take quite such good care of her as Master Weatherby George Dupree (who could?), I do my best for a girl of only thirty(one!).

I have been my mother's very own stalker the last couple of days. I phoned and phoned, I even went round to her house -- but could she be found? Could she? She finally resurfaced -- oh so casually -- at half past ten this evening. Half past ten!

I bet she went down to the end of the town.

Dance Party in the Sitting Room

Banana, spinach, nectarine & mint smoothie

If my flatmate (the lovely Miss S) didn't think I was mad already, this afternoon's dance party must have done it. Just me, a spotify playlist, and about an hour of utterly bonkers dancing in our sitting room.

This is my solution to the current no running situation. I boogy with absolutely no finesse (particularly now with my right-knee-sparing moves), but man if it isn't fun…

I particularly enjoyed grooving along to this one: excellent letting your hair down fare. Try it!

 

Megalomaniacal Wines

Bacon roll

Mostly I am but scantily tolerant of the existence of other Iona's. I encounter relatively few, and those whom I didn't grow up knowing about I am at some level deeply suspicious of. Their existence seems somehow to threaten my own, as though there were room for only a few Iona's before the edges started to blur. That was before I discovered I was the maker of a delicious Pinot Noir…

I already knew about my guise as a Sauvignon Blanc and a Chardonnay, but tonight I met Mr P… Apparently, "Mr P knows Pinots"… As wine for megalomaniacs goes, I'm in.

Peak Fruit Fly

Strawberry, banana & spinach smoothie
-- with basil, almond milk & cayenne pepper

Never mind Peak Peak, we've reached Peak Fruit Fly in our flat. The bon mot may have reached it's zenith, but the insectile community currently plaguing our existence (in so far as an existence can be plagued by an overabundance of be-winged settlers hellbent on colonising anything that is in any way related to fruit) shows no sign of shuffling off into fondly recalled obscurity.

Seemingly anything fruit-related will serve these miscreants. This morning -- having dispersed a cloud of them on grabbing a banana -- I fell upon another clutch revelling in the scanty remnants of former grapes (wine residue in wine glasses). Their habitat destroyed (Miss S emptied the compost last night), the little buggers have emigrated to other corners of the kitchen, scattering in skittish fashion whenever one should wander near by. Little do they know that this weekend I intend to rain down on them an assault like none they have known before… Tips welcomely received.

Cake is Part of My Life

Rice crispies and raspberries

It turns out that one can refer oneself to a physio these days, which made my visit to the GP this morning -- on account of my gyppy knee(s) -- rather unnecessary. I always thought of GPs as the gatekeepers to physios, holding back all but the worthy.

I didn't so much meet St Peter today as a cheery lady who sympathised that my knee bother must be very frustrating "if running is part of my life." I told her that cake is part of my life, and that the running is really just mitigation against cake. She suggested cycling instead.

Winter is Coming

Another banana

My flatmate and I are like the Starks of Winterfell these days, muttering darkly to one and other that "winter is coming" as we huddle -- already! -- under rugs in the sitting room considering much worse to come…

Already the north wind is blustering through our rattle-framed windows, goose-bumping skin and blowing our papers about. The hot water bottles are out of hibernation and into circulation again, and socks are becoming necessary in bed once more (at least for me, I can't comment on Miss S's bedtime habits having as yet refrained from clambering into hers with her…). Winter is coming.

Is it Art…? Or an Industrial Machinery Depot?

Bacon roll

Bran flakes & honey nut cornflakes, and tea
Note tea cosy: knitted waistcoat!

Bran flakes, pineapple & raspberries, and tea

Bran flakes, and tea
And the (non-edible!) bouquet I caught at a wedding this weekend

I drove a considerable distance this long weekend -- all the way down to Worcestershire on Friday, with a giggle of friends (this being the best sort of collective noun I can think of for a group of old friends cooped up in a tiny Peugeot and hopped up on minstrels) -- then onwards to Wiltshire (for a wedding) -- just me for the onwards...

Somewhere near Birmingham my tiredness was clearly setting in and I started to say "Oh look," about to point out to the others the art installation I thought I'd spotted, until I realised that the multi-coloured, bowed-armed display I had momentarily been marvelling at was in fact a cherry picker depot… and that the elegant, multi-tiered crane-like-the-bird structures I'd briefly been tickled by were, well, actual cranes…

Deodorants Do Not Have Regenerative Properties

Doppelgänger shreddies

Tonight I threw out three deodorants. Three. I have finally accepted that deodorants do not regenerate if you leave them floating about your bedroom/sponge bag/swimming bag for long enough. They remain as empty as the last time you attempted to use them. Arguably they get more empty as the leftover, measly driblets dry into the inside of the container. Just because they smell vaguely of antiperspirant does not mean they will function thus, however often you shake them.

The same is true of perfume. Once it's gone, it's gone.

(P.S. Anyone want to buy me some perfume?  -- Deodorant?)

Tom Hanks is not wrong about the ding

Raspberries & rice crispies

A meagre banana

My granny had a blue typewriter, a heavy old thing with a plastic cover that soon became mine. I still remember the heady thrill of bashing key after key, ink blotting paper, as you made your percussive advance towards the end of the line and that delicious ding, then the flick of your wrist as you returned the carriage to the start.

This was what writers did. Sure-fingered, they struck at floating keys, smudging out stories as the carriage lurched forwards towards the ding and scrape -- another line done. They tore their pages out from the typewriter in frazzle-haired frenzies, and crumpled them into smudgy balls, then began again: thump, thump, ding, whir; thump, thump, ding, whir. On and on.

I suppose then, it was only a matter of time before this happened: world, welcome the typewriter app. Somehow that Tom Hanks did it makes it better…

The herbs are not dead, long live the herbs!

Banana, spinach, nectarine & almond milk smoothie

Despite my fears, my little colony of herbs rallied bravely in the night time. Displaying grit and determination, they plumped themselves up and fluffed themselves out. Living to flavour another day.

In other news, I can't tell if this is satire...

Herbal Decline

The breakfast that became afternoon tea: bananas and yoghurt
(I gave in to the temptations of a bacon roll on my way to work)

Fried egg & bacon, and tea
(I decapitated one of the monks)

Croissant (and seven dwarfs -- spectators, not food), and tea

Generally herbs can expect a poor innings with me; and this blog may well serve as the damning proof of this (unless I stop popping my breakfasts next to them, thus revealing my shame)… Even the current crop, which seemed to be faring well on my program of neglect, interrupted by sporadic, remorseful -- please don't die -- drenchings, may have had their chips. The wan, wilted specimens I encountered this evening -- having forgotten to water them before I went away this weekend -- did not speak to my skills as a horticulturalist… Tomorrow's breakfast will tell.

The Graveyard of Leaky Biros

Rice crispies and strawberries

Today I had lunch with a friend and she asked me what was in my enormous handbag. (It's not so very enormous, in the grand scheme of enormous handbags -- but I suppose it's a little on the capacious side.) The answer is, a goodly number of exploded biros.

Many's the bic that's breathed it's last inside my handbag, exsanguinating all over my diary and driver's license, and blotting the pages of my passport…

I suppose I ought to buy one of those clicky pencil things instead, but god they're smug; even the little rubber in the top is provokingly well-conceived.

Political Satire or Governmental Bumf

Strawberry, banana, spinach & almond milk smoothie 
(thank you Fergie & Fife), and tea

Up until today, I'd always imagined that bumf was spelled with two f's -- just goes to show how much I know.

My flatmate drew my attention to the leaflet below this evening. I'd passed it by, assuming it was a flyer for yet another Fringe show. It wasn't. Rather than the political satire publicity I took if for, it was instead a communique from the Electoral Commission. But it really does look like it ought to be a comedy show leaflet, doesn't it?

I read it, and found it to be stylistically not dissimilar to the leaflets one gets about smear tests: "What happens after the referendum"; "My test says small changes, what does this mean?" The Yes campaign's font is nicer. They want us to "grasp it with both hands". The No campaign have Lisa Gardiner from Cambuslang. They are more Kumbaya-ish about the whole thing, wanting us to say things "loud and clear". People get much less worked up about smear tests.

Be Careful What You Say in Front of the Ficus

Banana and (pretty tepid when I drank it) tea

If I saw this in a spy film, I would think it utterly preposterous, and yet The Guardian tells me (and who am I to question them) that whatever I say in the presence of a potted plant I say to all and sundry: or at least to all of the sundry that have the wherewithal to visually record the imperceptible (to the human eye) vibrations of a nearby ficus and translate its quiverings into the very thing I said.

How long before James Bond is getting his intel from a packet of hula hoops?

Hottie...

Portable breakfast -- rice crispies and a banana (and tea, quaffed at work)

It is August. And I am in bed with a hottie... bottie. I know that the Scotland in the summer routine has been well and truly exhausted, but, -- to steal a little from the great, late ee cummings, "here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life": it is summer in August and I am in bed with a hottie… bottie; and it isn't the moon that's keeping me from the Perseids, it's the clouds, the rain bloated clouds.

879 Days

Guacamole on toast, and tea (of course)

It has been 879 days since my last breakfast…

… in the blogosphere. In the real world, I imagine there have been 879 of them too, give or take the odd one I slept through (I don't do well on none).

I won't lie, away from watching eyes, I've had some outrageous breakfasts -- custard creams, reese's pieces, leftover pizza, leftover thai food, cake, all sorts. Today, I was accidentally "on trend". The internets tell me it's all about avocado on toast for bendy, balanced yoga types. I'm neither bendy, nor balanced (in any sense of the word), but I did have a dangerously soft avocado languishing in the fruit bowl, and awoke to tomato and lemon remnants in the kitchen that screamed "guacamole me", so I did.

879 days seem like the number of days in which seismic things could have happened. I could have won an election (I didn't); spawned three infants, albeit in alarmingly Catholic succession (I haven't); finished my novel (I haven't); had my heart broken (I have, twice); moved house (I have); finally figured out how to leave the flat without having to go back at least three times because I've forgotten my phone, sunglasses, wallet etc (I haven't).

879 days focus the mind: I need to figure out all sorts of everything before the next 879 fly by.

Top of the list: did "tagging" get rebranded "labelling" while I was absent from the blogosphere? And is it just as bamboozling an exercise as ever it seemed?