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...