Lies and deceit, deceit and lies

It strikes me every year and, every year as I get more cynical, it strikes me with increasing force, that Christmas, this great time of faith, hope and love, is based on deceit.

There is the great deceit that we perpetrate upon our children, that a kindly old man with a red coat will come into their bedrooms when they are asleep and give them something wonderful to remember. I mean, weird or what? I recall being terrified of that old man and my parents having to reasssure me that he wasn't real at all, just a big fat lie.

And there are all the little "white" lies of the social occasions.

"Oh, it's lovely, you shouldn't have!" (It's horrible and I wish you hadn't)

"They're delicious, they really are, but I honestly couldn't manage another thing" (I wouldn't put another of those greasy things in my mouth if you paid me in ingots of solid gold)

"We'd love to pop round but I'm afraid we can't" (Thank heavens)

I don't think I lie as much all year as I lie at Christmas, one way or another. What a lovely family time it is.

Tins

I was in Morrisons yesterday and saw - tins of fried onions.

Who on earth, if they wanted fried onions, wouldn't fry an onion but would open a tin instead?

And what normal person would think of putting fried onions into tins in the first place?

Socks, and, Trollope

Just to reassure all you eager readers - yes, I am still alive. Cold, grumpy, but not quite dead yet. Miserable in the cold weather, can't get warm, wearing vests, socks over tights inside boots, scarf indoors. Eating too many biscuits for comfort and putting on weight. Last winter's best trousers are too tight to wear. Found a lovely pair in John Lewis yesterday, warm and lined and nice, and £125 marked down to £50. Tried them on and Husband said they made me look fat. No, they didn't make me look fat, I am fat. Didn't buy them. Hate Husband. Hate myself.

Borrowed Trollope from the library tonight, the first of the six Barsetshire novels. Reading Trollope is for old people, it's about the last thing you do before you die.

And it isn't even the shortest day yet.

Feet

Look at your feet. Look how small they are - no more than 4" wide, 10" long.

Imagine two shapes that size drawn on the floor.

Then think - every day you balance, all day long, on those small things. Quite often you are standing on only one of them.

But don't think about it for too long, or you might fall over.

An old zither our guinea pig used to sleep on

I count myself lucky that I inherited my father's sense of humour (although he is certainly not to blame for the inappropriateness of some of the things I find funny). I also inherited most of his books and quite a few of his favourite authors. His tastes would have been formed in the thirties and forties, so many of them are out of fashion nowadays. I keep Wodehouse by the bed (and, for a pinko-liberal Guardian reader, liking Wodehouse is pretty much as bad as liking Wagner) and while I may hate his sins I can't help liking the sinner.

In the days when I was having children, I never went into hospital without either Saki or Thurber, neither of them read or regarded by anyone I know although I would recommend them to everyone. They are of their time, admittedly, but so is Jane Austen and noone ever holds it against her. I have just returned once more to Thurber, in an ancient yellow paperback which was my father's, falling to bits and with that ripe smell that old paperbacks have. And I was laughing aloud on the train on Thursday morning (for which I apologise to my fellow travellers).

What's not to love about an author who manages to work into his story, "an old zither that our guinea pig used to sleep on"?

Not now, Prince Charming

A year ago, I wrote a post suggesting that Cinderella would have got bored with life at the palace and would have wanted to go back to a life where she had something to do, something to keep her busy.

I think I was wrong about that. Now I'm thinking that she would probably have refused to go back to the palace in the first place.

Imagine it. The night before, she had been whisked away from the kitchen, quite possibly before she had finished her evening chores (washing up after dinner, tidying the kitchen, putting the cat out) and had spent hours and hours at the ball. At the stroke of midnight, she has to go running back home and what do you think she finds?

Well, at a guess, and knowing what her sisters were like, she would have found teetering stacks of dirty dishes dumped on the kitchen table (and more spread like a fan round their chairs in front of the television), the leftovers from dinner spilt on the floor where the cat had been at them, her favourite saucepan blackened from a not very successful attempt to make hot chocolate, the bath left with a ring of grease and hair round it from cack-handed depilation, sodden towels on the floor and the toilet left unflushed.

And so, next morning, when the Prince comes a-knocking with the glass slipper, what would she have said? I haven't got time for any of this! Look at the state of the place! It's going to take me days to catch up and get it all straight again! I haven't even finished the washing-up yet and I'm never going to get lunch on the table in time. If you think I've got time to mess about with a silly slipper...

Rain

It was a wet day yesterday and the lovely English people were behaving in their usual lovely illogical way when faced with unseasonal weather, whether rain in summer or sun in winter. Half were over-reacting and half weren't reacting at all. So there were people all wrapped up in raincoats, with long boots and collars turned up and umbrellas, and there were people in summer dresses and flip-flops, and they were all on the street at the same time. There were even people who couldn't decide which way to behave, so they were half-and-half, people with great thick padded anoraks and sandals, people with flimsy tops and fur-lined boots.

Surely we are all used to inconsistent weather by now? It is always inconsistent weather in England.

The holiday ended with a bang (because there wasn't time for a whimper)

It was our last morning in Malaga and we were intending to go to the Museum of Modern Art, and then do a bit of shopping (a few presents, etc) before going to the airport. So we were in the hotel room doing the last of the packing, cleaning teeth and such like and Husband had just asked what time it was. It was between twenty and quarter to ten, and we were discussing whether the musem would open at 10 or before, and Husband was putting the travel documents into his case. And then he said, in an unusually small voice - "The flight's at 10.25".

I had had it fixed in my mind that we had a morning flight and would be home by lunchtime, but Husband had persuaded me that I'd got it wrong and we were leaving at lunchtime. I had suggested checking, but it had never been done. So there we were, with less than 45 minutes to get to the plane.

I decided, regretfully, that we didn't have time for a row.

We flung the last bits into the bags (thankfully we only had hand luggage and had checked-in online) and rushed down to reception and asked them to order a taxi. Which they did, but we had to wait for it, and I suppose it was only five minutes but it felt like an hour. And then the traffic was heavy and then there were roadworks - and we were just on the approach road to the airport at ten past ten.

Thank goodness the queues were short at the security check and noone tried to stop us. We ran through the departure lounge, found the gate number (C36) and ran for that. Reached it, out of breath. And it was shut. No sign of passengers, no sign of staff. We stood at looked at it stupidly, then Husband put his bag down and started to trudge back, I suppose to look for someone to tell us what to do next. And I looked round behind me and saw - our flight still showing at gate C35. I must have mis-read it on the board. I had to shout at Husband, who was a way away by then, he gallopped back and we thrust our boarding cards at the staff there. "Es possible?" Thank goodness for the easy-going Mediterranean temperament. Yes, it was possible.

Our bottoms hit the seats at 10.23.

Espana - campeon del mundo

Now, I'm not a great footie fan - as any fule no - but half the point, if not more than half the point, of going to Malaga was to be in Spain for the World Cup Final, Husband having correctly predicted that Spain was likely to be in it. So it would have been daft not to go to watch it last Sunday evening.

We had been expecting to watch it in a bar, but asking at the tourist office we were told that there was going to be a giant screen erected in the bull ring. Not being Birmingham, the bull ring in Malaga is a proper bull ring. So there we were, in the blazing sun (knowing locals had filled the shaded half) - the five of us, four Dutch fans and 5,000 Spaniards.

The mood was jubilant and confident to start with; gradually things got more tense and, as we lurched into the second half of extra time with the score still 0-0, Spain having failed to put the ball away despite numerous good chances, it was positively quiet. You could almost hear 5,000 Spaniards chewing their nails.

You couldn't hear yourself think when they finally scored. Absolute bedlam. Shouting, stamping, cheering, hooters, horns, flares, firecrackers and scarlet smoke bombs. Absolutely amazing. And the party went on all night although we, lily-livered tourists that we were, crept into bed about 1 o'clock.

Marianne Faithfull

We have just had a few days holiday in Malaga. We arrived to find that Marianne Faithful, no less, was doing a concert in the main theatre on the Saturday night. And we are old enough to remember Marianne as THE rock chick of all rock chicks, the glamorous, elfin drifter through the sixties with the lifestyle that we all envied.

We couldn't believe that there would be seats still available, but there were. Seats at all prices. We bought the cheapest, of course. And arrived to find the place more than half-empty and were offered the chance to sit in one of the boxes, instead of right up in the gods. (I've never actually sat in a box before!)

That was the first sad thing, that she couldn't fill even a small theatre in a big Spanish town full of tourists and expats. There were only 400 in. They kept the house lights down so she couldn't see how few of us there were.

It is unfair to complain that she is old now. Of course she is. If she was young in the sixties - well, work it out for yourself. It is forty years on, and more. And it made me feel old too, just looking at her and realising that there in front of us was the undeniable reminder that we are all old now. Was she sober? I'm not sure. She was very wobbly and wavering and confused. It would be more charitable to think that perhaps she had been ill. But she had all her songs on a stand beside her, had to keep looking at them to remind herself what came next.

She wasn't well served by the technical staff. The sound was unbalanced, her accompanying guitarist very loud, her own voice often drowned.

It was almost the saddest thing I have ever seen in a theatre.

Platform

There was a major disaster at the station on Tuesday morning. I have been commuting for 20-odd years and for most of them, I have been standing exactly at the same place on the platform each morning, at a spot which coincides with the rear set of doors on the penultimate carriage. (This makes it easy for me to get my accustomed seat amongst the familiar faces. I can't take any excitement at that time in the morning).

It has been easy to find the right place, because it is exactly three cracks to the left of the chipped slab. The platform is edged with quite large slabs, one of which was easy to spot becasue a chunk of the corner was broken off. Count along to the left to the third crack between the slabs - and that was my place.

Except it isn't any more. As part of the building work which is leading to the extension of the platform to accommodate 12-coach trains, they have renewed the slabs. They are the same size and shape and style, but without a missing corner they all look exactly the identical.

Now how am I going to be able to find exactly the right place to stand?

Wardrobe dilemma

I tidied my wardrobe the other week - I had to do it, I couldn't get the door shut - and came up against the usual dilemma. Not just what to get rid of, but how to decide what to get rid of? There are two sets of criteria - what fits and what doesn't fit; and what I like and what I don't like.

Clothes that I like and that fit - of course, I keep them.
Clothes that I don't like and that don't fit - of course, I get rid of them.

That leaves (by far the majority) - clothes that I like but don't fit; and clothes that fit that I don't like.

Of the clothes that fit but that I don't like - I can hardly ever justify getting rid of them, unless they really are so absolutely horrific that I wouldn't be seen out in them, and even then they get used for gardening. And if they really really are horrific, I wouldn't have bought them in the first place. So there is a big pile of things that fit but that for some reason or another I have taken against, and as they get no use they aren't going to wear out, and are going to hang in the wardrobe for ever more. Occasionally I try to give them away to Daughter but her face assumes such an expression of disgust! The very idea!

And then there are the clothes that I love but which don't fit, and I am always trying to persuade myself that one day they will fit. Whether I keep them or not depends upon how much I like them, how much wear I have had out of them (though I admit to keeping things that not only don't fit any more but are in tatters, just because I love them so much) and how much they cost in the first place. So there are quite a lot of "posh" clothes that would be a criminal waste to get rid of and they go on hanging sadly at the back of the wardrobe waiting for a miracle in the weight loss department.

Losing weight would solve a lot of problems - I could wear all those nice expensive clothes that are currently a size (or two) too small - AND the clothes that fit now but that I don't like, wouldn't fit any more, because they'd be too big, and I could get rid of them with a clear conscience.

But then, I wouldn't be able to wear any of my current favourites for the same reason.

In the end, almost everything went back in the wardrobe, albeit sharing hangers to save space.

Boasting about the garden

I'm always going on about my garden, so here, for all you faithful readers, are some pictures - carefully framed to miss most of the mess.

Post-exam bliss 'n' blues

It's over - I did my last exam on Thursday morning (Spanish GCSE, for anyone (if there is anyone out there) who didn't know I was taking it this year). And it is a mighty strange feeling, to have it all behind me.

It's a funny business, taking an exam as an adult. Sitting in the school hall on Monday afternoon, all the mature students in a row down the length of it, like warships steaming out of Scapa Flow, and two or three rows of schoolkids as well, to our left; on the hottest day of the summer so far, with the curtains drawn to keep out the glare and occasionally lifting in the breeze from the big windows; in silence, except for the squeak of chairs and click-clicking of pen tops; the invigilator sat up on the stage watching us all - I hadn't expected it to bring back so clearly those summers forty years ago when I sat my "real" O- and A-level exams, the ones that mattered.

Because this exam doesn't matter, not in the way it matters to the year 11 students sitting it with us. Our future in work and higher education doesn't depend upon it. We said we'd like to do it, as a challenge, and to keep us focussed on our evening classes, as a bit of fun, we said. We weren't going to get stressed about it, we said. Ha! We've been worse than any 16-year-old. We've been obsessively revising, learning vocabulary on the train, doing practice papers every weekend, swotting up on our irregular verbs at any odd moment that could be spared (and some that shouldn't have been). We've probably been hell to live with. I don't think there is any one of us who doesn't have a first degree; and several have postgraduate or research degrees. We've all had demanding careers. We've all had families and personal problems and difficulties to overcome. We are experienced and we are used to achieving. But when it came to the exam, we were worse, much worse, than any 16-year-old. So yes, there is a sense of relief now that I can sit back and discover how much more time I have got. Heck, I can go back to reading a book (instead of a textbook) on the train!

But there was a real sense of release in sitting the exam. I'd forgotten what it was like. That wonderful moment when you can sit down, relax (there's nothing more you can do), turn the paper over - and just let it go, all those things you have learnt, putting it all down. Perhaps it is like a concert pianist, with all the months of practice, all the rehearsals, behind; finally waiting for the conductor, in silence, then lifting her hands on to the keys and playing. It is deeply satisfying. And addictive.

So, what next? I doubt I shall continue with the Spanish next year. I think the rest of the class want to do more conversation, and that isn't what I enjoy about a language. I don't have Spanish friends, I don't have Spanish family, we don't always go to Spain on holiday, I am not going to retire over there. So what use would it be to me to learn how to talk in Spanish? I'd love to do more reading and writing, but I'll have to accept that I will be in the minority in this respect. It seems a shame to put it all away and gradually forget it... But.

Horror

That is what I felt when I staggered downstairs this morning to make the tea and found, lying in the usual place where the cats leave their little "offerings" (in the hall, just outside the kitchen door) not the usual mouse, rat or bird but... a guinea-pig. Quite dead. Not mangled at all, looking almost peaceful, but... OMG!

I scooped it up into the dustpan (which acts as the temporary mortuary in such cases) and put it safely at the back door where the cats couldn't get at it again, although, to be honest, once dead they tend to lose interest in such things. And I made the tea and crept back upstairs to Husband and told him. We agreed it was best to say nothing to our Children, on the grounds that the fewer people knew the truth the better and we didn't want to risk them blurting something out where they might be overheard. They do have voices like foghorns.

Chances were that the guinea pig came from two doors down, where the nice people live who gave us the greenhouse, who have two young children and where we know there is a hutch in the garden. They are often away at the weekends. We didn't want to think what the children would say when they came home to find the hutch ransacked and their little darling gone. Of course, we reasoned, just because the corpse was in our house didn't mean that it was one of our cats that did the dirty deed - after all, they have two cats of their own - one of ours might just have brought it back for a decent burial. But it would take good criminal lawyer to make the defence stick.

So we did with it what they did with Sir John Moore at Corunna -

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning,

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light

And the lanthorn dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

(Well, not exactly the dead of night, but certainly surreptiously). If anyone knocks on the door tonight, we're out. And if anyone asks, we know nothing.

Retail therapy

Given that I had to go to the dentist (my least favourite invasive procedure) it didn't seem unreasonable (not to me, anyway) to pop into the shops on the way. I knew I was winning when I nipped into Robert Dyas for some seeds and was given a fre copy of Gardeners' World magazine. It's not my top favourite reading, but hey, it's free!

After that it was heavy clothes shopping. I never shop without thinking of my friend C (yes, you know who you are) who always points out the shoddy workmanship, poor quality fabric and so on, and who knows that she or I could make up the same garment at home for half the price and twice as well (in her case, anyway - she's a better seamstress than I will ever be). And she is always right. Anyway, I ended up with a pair of black linen trousers (which need shortening and the buttons changing because they are horrible) and a nice little skirt suit which needs a different belt but is otherwise OK. So all I need now is - a new belt, a couple of tops to go under the suit, a pair of shoes and enough time to do the alterations. And then - and only then - I shall have some new clothes to wear.

Garden

It has been another frustrating weekend weather-wise. It was pouring down on Sunday, so I did all the indoor jobs - the cleaning, cooking, ironing, all the boring stuff - and on Monday, as it was still very wet underfoot and with better weather promised for the afternoon, I did the same again in the morning - all the boring indoor stuff. After lunch, out I went into the garden. There were still heavy showers, but I could dodge them by doing sowing and stuff in the shed or in the greenhouse; and then I did lots of tidying in the shed and the greenhouse... and still there were heavy showers, too close together to be worth getting outdoors in between them. I don't mind getting wet myself, but I do hate working with tools with wet handles. The sky would clear, the sun would come out, and I would just be thinking, ha ha, now's my chance - when along would come the next downpour. In the end, and in bad mood, I gave up and came in. And it never rained again for the rest of the day!

Today I have to go up to town as I have a dentist's appointment, and already the sky is clouding over. But I must get another row of peas in when I get back if I possibly can...

The only good thing about the rain is that everything in the garden looks lush and green and healthy. And the rhubarb has put on another three inches over the last few days, so there will be rhubarb crumble next weekend.

Eternal life

I have no religious belief at all and while I suppose in some ways it would be awfully nice to live for ever (and initially it seems a lot better than the alternative) I have a sneaking feeling that it would also be either very boring or very frustrating, or both. How irritating would it be to actually be able to see your friends and family getting on with their lives without you, and cheerfully at that? How could you cope with seeing them throwing out your old clothes and even your favourite armchair, especially if they did so with relief and an announcement that they had never liked it in the first place? And if you couldn't look in on them, how would you fill your time, a whole eternity of it?

The first thing that strikes me about eternal life is that most people are quite keen on it, but only for themselves and their own dear ones - not for everyone else. How many graves (bear in mind, dear reader, that I was in Highgate Cemetery on Monday) bore hopes of being "reunited" or "together at last"? Fair enough, but would you want to be reunited with your dotty aunt, or that tedious man from down the road? And if you are granted eternal life there is no reason to suppse that they won't be granted the same.

The other thing that strikes me is that the secular concept of life after death (that we live on in memories) is pretty time-limited. I don't think about anyone that I don't, or didn't know - and when I die, the same will be true of me. I will only be remembered by friends and family for as long as they themselves live - so, say, about 70 years at most after me. The cemetery was filled with graves of people who must have been good and decent people in their time, probably respectable members of society, people who gave something back, teachers, preachers, scientists, doctors, writers and thinkers. Now their graves are being split open by saplings, pulled apart by ivy, the headstones toppling, the inscriptions faded, noone visits, noone knows anything about them and noone cares in the least.

And does it matter? Probably not. But we all like to think ourselves immortal. Illogical, that.

A rave round the graves

I had a very enjoyable day out on Monday with J and L, who are blessedly undemanding friends, and so we potter along from coffee to cake and lunch, nattering about this and that, in a comfortable sort of a way. We don't agree about everything, but then we don't have to.

On Monday the focus of the day was Highgate Cemetery. I haven't been there for at least twenty years and it has certainly been tidied up (although still very overgrown) - the other innovation is that it is no longer possible just to go in and potter, not in the older part, where you have to join a guided tour. Our guide was excellent, which made it easier to bear (I'm not a great fan of guided tours) and I am sure we saw lots of things that we would otherwise have missed and learned more than we would have done on our own. Of couse it was frustrating not to be able to explore, or to linger. We did more of that afterwards when we crossed the road to the newer part of the cemetery, where you are allowed to wander undisturbed. The mood did gradually become more sombre...

So we went and had tea!

Garden

It has been a good weekend - the first really sunny and warm weekend - and I have been spending most of it down the garden. So, I have finally got the second (and last) of my potato rows in, which was just as well, as the sprouts were an inch long. These were Anya, which is a variety I haven't tried before, but they are salad potatoes, bred from Pink Fir Apple, so they'll be a funny shape but should taste good.

I also spent a lot of time yesterday pruning the blackberries (and yes, I do know that I should have done it last autumn but I didn't have the time). It isn't a job you can do quickly, and even doing it slowly I got myself very scratched and bloody but it looks tidy now with everything tied in neatly. And I neatened up the vine as well, the one that goes up over the arch, although the effect has been rather spoiled by Ruddles climbing up and chewing the ends, goodness knows why, but he will eat anything and perhaps he liked the taste of the sap.

There is so much left to do that I could spend all week out there and probably still not get it all finished. It is frustrating to have to go back to work tomorrow knowing it will be another six days before I am here again able to get on with it, and even then it might be raining.

Mouse

This is the story that I have been asked to tell again, about the mouse - or, maybe, mice. Remember that I wasn't actually there at the time.

It was some years ago and we were staying at Grandma's, who had organised us to join one of her coach trips to Edinburgh. Husband said he would rather emasculate himself with rusty bolt-cutters than go out with all those old biddies and, wisely as it turned out, stopped at home. I and the children , who were rather younger then, went along for the ride. Grandma had said it would be a lovely day out for them at Edinburgh Zoo.

It wasn't a particularly lovely day. It was a cold, wet day - windy and drizzling and penetratingly damp. As we got nearer to Edinburgh, and it took us a long time to get there, what with all the toilet and coffee stops, Grandma indicated that we should to get ready to get off - and only then did I realise that she wasn't coming with us, but staying on the coach to go on into the city. Which is how we ended up in the lay-by outside the zoo, in the drizzle, as the coach roared off towards the bright lights, the shops and the cafes.

We did our best to make a good day of it, but we spent a lot of time sheltering. Any animal with a nice warm box had the good sense to stay in it, so mostly we were looking at empty cages. The zoo was offering a "meet the reptiles" session and we even went to that, as it was indoors, and I ended up holding a snake (which, to be fair to it, was reasonably warm) only because I didn't dare have an attack of the screaming ab-dabs with the children watching.

Eventually we ended up back at the lay-by, and rather later the coach came along to pick us up, full of rosy-cheeked old biddies full of tea and cake. What did they care, or even notice, that we were wet through, shivering and murderous?

Husband had realised the state we would be in and, to his credit, had organised hot food and a roaring fire. Before Grandma would settle down, though, she insisted on pottering about checking and emptying the mouse-traps of their sad little corpses. I was in the kitchen when I heard the shouting. Having arranged for the children to spend the day learning about the wonders of the animal world, Grandma was nonchalantly emptying the mouse-traps onto the fire.

Since when we have always shrunk from examining too closely the fires that Grandma builds - fearing that amongst the merry blaze we will hear the soft thwump and sizzle of exploding mice.

Disaffected

It hasn't been a great day off. I had it planned for gardening, but it's been showery and bitterly cold, with a biting wind, so I didn't fancy it outside and as a result I've been kicking about at a bit of a loose end. (That's a bit unfair on myself, as I did put in a morning of very useful housework).

Anyway, I ended up in the town, wandering about in and out of the shops, seeing lots of very nice things - but they were all too flimsy, too small or much too young for me, and so I got increasingly grumpy. No surprise there.

Staring out of the bus window on the way back home, there was a disaffected youth trudging along, slouched in his hoodie. And I thought - maybe I should get a hoodie. It would certainly chime with my mood. I've already got the ill-fitting jeans and the down-at-heel shoes, and the slouch gets pretty much universal as we all get older and more hunched, and scuff slowly along where once we would have strode fit and erect. We tend to mumble, and disapprove of pretty much everything, our social skills and pleasantries have gone all to pot, and why would it matter if the wires trailing from our ears ended in hearing aids rather than i-Pods? Why should only the young have a uniform of disaffection?

I'm sure that M&S, or Edinburgh Woollen Mill, could come up with a design in a tasteful plaid, with a nice snuggly fleece lining in the hood...

Mess

It's the breadboard that really bugs me. I clean up the kitchen, every Saturday morning, anti-clockwise from the table to the compost bucket, methodically, including clearing the crumbs off the breadboard into the garden for the birds. Then, with it all clear and tidy, off I go to do something else.

And when I come back, no matter how long or short a time it is, someone has been through and made toast, or a sandwich, and there is MESS on the breadboard, crumbs, smears of jam or mayo, a blunt knife with butter on it, a sharp knife as well sometimes, the stalk of a tomato, or a bit of cheese rind, just left.

So I clear it all up, wipe down the breadboard etc etc. Go back to whatever it was I was doing, or something else.

A bit later - yes, breadboard all messy again.

Drives me BONKERS.

Equinox

At last, the days are longer than the nights. The birds are starting to sing before the alarm goes off (noisy little buggers) and it isn't quite dark when I get home from work. There are frogs, and spawn, in the pond; the first daffodils are opening; and there are buds on the fruit trees. Everything is warm, and moving at last.

Hurrah!

Sorry for silence

A big apology to my loyal reader (that's you, Mrs Trellis of North Wales) for such a long gap between posts. I have been very preoccupied with a lot of things lately, most of them work-related but some of them domestic. I remember that back in November I was saying that everything would get better once Christmas was out of the way; now I am saying the same thing about Easter.

You see, it takes me quite a long time to deliver a blog post. I really don't think that life should be mistaken for art and I abhor the casual stream-of-conciousness type of utterance, all incoherent rant or rave on the spur of the moment. Nothing we say is without some kind of moderation - there is always the smallest of gaps between what we think and what we actually say, and it's no bad thing to stretch that gap before putting finger to keyboard. We all edit our feelings and our memories, sometimes to the extent that after a lapse of years we can no longer remember what did happen and what we wished had happened - we all re-work our experiences. I'm not a big fan of Wordsworth, but I can sign up to his definition of art (of poetry, in his case) as "emotion recollected in tranquility".

I'm not claiming the status of art for this blog or any of its posts, far from it, but I have been too busy in the experience recently to have time to recollect it. I will try to do better in future.

I don't run for buses any more

Any conversation I have at the moment seems to turn to the subject of retirement, old age, disease and death. Some people are really looking forward to retiring and some people who already are retired reckon they've never had it so good; others dread retirement as the beginning of the end, a slow decline into incapacity and indignity. I think it all depends upon your energy levels, physical and mental - if you have enough of both, then retirement is going to be great.

The trouble is, I think I am already slowing down. There are an awful lots of things nowadays that I just can't be bothered to do. Even things I have been looking forward to - holidays, outings - as they get closer turn from being treats to being chores, things which have to be done, and I look forward to the time when they are over and I am able to slide back into the familiar and undemanding routine.

Most of the time it is easier to do nothing - or at least, not to do anything today when there is always tomorrow. Why bother doing the ironing? After all, it isn't going to go anywhere, and I don't actually need any of it right now. Might as well have a sit down and a cup of tea and a biscuit instead. Why get on with that presentation I should be writing when I could as easily do a blog post, or play patience?

And it is the same with buses. Why lurch into an undignified run and get out of breath? Might as well assume indifference and stroll on, hoping there's another one behind it. But is this a mature and reasonable decision or just the first sign of old age?

Mother's pride

It was Daughter's A2 drama practical exam last night. She has been fretting and despairing, and rehearsing all the hours in the day.

And she was brilliant. Bloody brilliant.

I am so proud of her.

Back to school

Huge excitement on the train this morning when I found myself in the same carriage as the schoolkids again. With all the disruption of the snow, plus endless changes to the timetables, I haven't seen them for ages.

No sign of Nice Girl, which was a shame. Perhaps she is working extra hard for her exams (they are all in A-level year) - she's the sort who would try to do her best, and if, as I think I overheard, she is wanting to study medicine then she will need good grades.

Tall Boy was there. He's not made it to Oxbridge, seems destined for Durham. Blonde Bits was also there at his side, but I don't think she was making a play for him, seemed to be pitching to the Almond-Eyed Boy, who is always lingering on the edge of the group. He is very nearly strikingly pretty but there is something about his mouth that lets the rest of his face down. Tall Boy's Best Friend was there too but, like Nice Girl, he's no looker and an observer rather than an actor in the dramas.

And do you know the really scary thing? In twenty years' time, they will probably all be sat round the Cabinet table in Downing Street, running the country for the Conservatives. And they will be giving their ducks better housing and care than they will grant to the poor old urine-soaked biddies amongst whom I will be sitting in the eventide home.

Buttons

I went shopping yesterday and bought a jumper. It was in Edinburgh Woollen Mill, a shop that has sales almost as often as DFS, and I'd seen the jumper (grey, lambswool and angora) and liked it but not been willing to pay full price for it. Here it was at last reduced, £5 off.

There was quite big pile of them, but only one Large (and I do like my jumpers loose, can't bear to think of people seeing my rolls of back fat). And anyway, sizes don't come up very big there. Just one Large and it had the button missing (there is a keyhole feature at the neck). So I had a quick look and yes, as usual there was a spare button sewn on the label inside.

I took it to the counter, where the very bored sales assistant was lounging, and I asked whether they might have another jumper in the storeroom, as this one had a button missing.

"Naaah".

Might I have a look to see if there was a spare button? I started to unfold it on the counter but she stopped me.

"Naaah izzunt one". So, she doesn't know anything about the stock and she hadn't noticed me looking at it already.

"Cunn givyer discount". Excellent, I thought, and asked what she would offer.

20% off. (I'd have settled for 10%).

It didn't take me long to work out what the price would be, so I said yes.

"Gotter work it out on till".

It took ages. I'm not speedy at mental maths but it took her twice as long on the till as it took me in my head.

I paid her and left. I came home and looked in the button box and found a very nice little ivory (not real ivory, ivory-coloured) elephant, sewed it on and it looks much nicer than the original button would have done.

(Yes, yes, I know people don't have button boxes any more.)

I wouldn't normally try to swindle discount off, certainly not off a small and honest retailer who knew his trade. I don't have much sympathy for the big stores and certainly not for ones who employ staff who neither know nor care about their stock or customers. Husband said they must write off the losses made from lost sales or discouraged customers in the same way they write off losses from shop-lifting, and I suppose he's right. It's depressing though.

Primroses

There are primroses in flower in the garden!

A week ago, when it was Daughter's birthday and we went out for dinner, it was snow and ice and under our glad rags we were wearing wellies.

Now the primroses are out, and not just in the most sheltered spots. The snowdrops are only just pushing their snouts above ground but -

the primroses are in flower!

TV

Programmes I haven't wanted to see:

• The lost libraries of Timbuktu
• Pet chimp attack
• Muslim driving school
• Can fat teens hunt?

Snow

I hate the snow - I hate everything to do with winter. Maybe it's OK if you are indoors, somewhere warm, just looking out at it - but it is misery to be trying to get to work in it, trying to shop and just do the ordinary everyday business of living in it. I am so tired with the struggle, and so is everyone I talk to. Trying to keep balance on slippery pavements; waiting ages in two inches of frozen slush for a bus; trains that don't go the usual way to the usual place. All horrible.

My skin is so dry that it is cracking over my knuckles. My nails are breaking. My hair is like straw. I seem to have been wearing the same clothes for weeks. I am fed up with clumpy boots and wellies.

All the plants in the cold frame and in the greenhouse look half-dead or completely dead, mushy and rotten, or stiff and brown. Plants in the ground have been flattened. Everywhere is sodden and muddy and bleak.

If winter comes, can Spring be far behind? Looks like it to me.

Married love

I have now been married for more than twice as long as the First World War and Second World War combined.

Back

I was talking to a colleague in the staff room yesterday, having a bit of a rant about people and how silly they are being in the snow. There are a couple turning up to the bus stop now dressed in enormous (matching) anoraks, woolly hats, huge walking boots and a pair apiece of those silly spiked sticks, as if they were going up the Matterhorn, not getting a bus into town. "Hmmm," said my colleague, "I've got one of those spiked sticks, they're awfully useful for keeping your balance." So I had to backtrack and pretend that I thought it was only people who had two sticks who looked silly.

And I set off again on a different tack, about people on trains with rucksacks. I'd been knocked sideways that morning by some oaf with an enormous backpack, completely oblivious of what was going on behind him. "Ahh," said my colleague, "I've been using my rucksack the last couple of days."

Wouldn't it be great if Life had a "Back" button?

End of the holidays

For the first time in a lot of years I had the three days off between Christmas and New Year, which, with weekends and bank holidays, amounted to a total of 11 days off work. And I am ashamed of how little I seem to have achieved.

Meeting with friends - 2 (despite its being the festive season n'all, we hardly saw another living soul)

Phonecalls to friends - 1 (and pretty much got the brush-off)

Christmas cards - definitely fewer than last year

Shopping trips to the sales - 2 (fruitless, except for...

New pairs of boots - 1)

Lie-ins - 10 (only 1 morning did I wake up early, and was rarely late to bed)

Cups of tea and coffee - far too many, far far too many

Alcohol - too much, much much too much, but...

Dry days - 2 (amazing in the circumstances)

Time in the garden - a big fat zero, so none of the outside jobs done, trees not pruned etc etc

Murders committed - none (but plenty of urges to murder)

Resolution to work over next Christmas - 1

Pineapples

There are bargains - and bargains. Husband can never resist a bargain of either kind, hence his arrival home with four pineapples, very cheap, from the market. Notwithstanding the fact that there is no such thing as a bargain in the market (if pineapples are cheap it is because they "need using" - or, "are starting to go off", in common parlance) or that noone in the family is very fond of pineapples (Husband himself refusing to eat them in any form or under any disguise).

What on earth am I going to do with four, ever so slightly rotting, pineapples?

You can't freeze them. Jane Grigson recommends pineapple in brandy (which sounds pretty good to me, but noone but me will ever eat it, and I'm fat enough already), pineapple ice-cream (which even I don't fancy) or pineapple marmalade (and that wouldn't be heavily enough disguised for Husband, and it is a heck of a lot of work for a product the prospect of which noone actually relishes, not even me).

This evening we had pineapple and cheese (on sticks, stuck into a grapefruit) with our New Years Day fizz, and very nice it was, surprisingly for such an old-fashioned dish, much nicer than it is with the tinned pineapple it is usually made with. I am meditating gammon with pineapple for unsuspecting children tomorrow.

After that, it is just me and a tub full of chunked pineapple, in the middle of the night, when everyone else is asleep... and nightmares of multiplying pineapples.