Wrap and roll and happy feet

In an attempt to diversify from the sandwich form and put something different in Andy's packed lunch occasionally, I bought some wraps. You know, those large flat pancake bits of bread that you use to wrap around a filling, hence the name 'wrap.'

Except I think they are very much mis-named. I think they should be called 'flops' or 'spills' or maybe 'split-as-soon-as-you-pick-them-ups'. They start off okay. You assemble your filling, position it somewhere just off-centre of the wrap and then you faff about trying to find the best origami configuration to use so when you pick it up to eat it it doesn't spill its contents all down your trousers.

I've tried following the instructions on the back of the packet but as far as I can tell, in order to do this effectively, the wraps need to be at least twice the size they are AND the amount of filling needs to be reduced to say, a slice of cucumber, a square centimetre of red pepper and a teaspoon of tuna/cheese/ sausage/ whatever Andy wants, it's usually one of those three options. (I add the salad in an attempt to get him to eat vegetables. There are three ways to get Andy to eat vegetables - 1) hide them in cheese sauce 2) hide them in curry sauce 3) tell him if he doesn't eat his veg he won't get any pudding.)

Anyway, I managed to wrestle two artfully folded wraps into a sandwich bag this morning. I can only imagine the disaster that is likely to happen when Andy takes them out to eat at lunchtime. I can't help think a roll would be an easier option. You can't go wrong with a roll, can you? At least they are robust enough that you can give them a good smack with the palm of your hand to keep the contents in situ.

And did you see that dear old Tezzco has developed a non-soggy tomato especially for use in tomato sandwiches so you don't end up with tomato juice soaking through the bread and making the whole sandwich collapse in a wet heap?

THAT'S WHAT BUTTER IS FOR, YOU IDIOTS! Butter provides a waterproof layer twixt bread and tomato so no leakage happens. It always works for me. And to think this company is one of the most powerful and influential in this country...

Now, see this foot?

This is a happy foot! This foot has been hobblin' and wobblin' for ten days now. This foot has been limpin' and shufflin' up and down stairs, around the house and even making it into town a couple of times in highly heroic fashion. This foot has swum up and down with me through the pain of a burning Achilles tendon.

Last night, Andy came home with a present for me. Flowers? Choccies? The latest cutting edge literary novel (oh no, that's the one I'm currently writing!)? No. An ankle support. Oh yes, Andy is nothing if not original in his choice of pressies! Much hilarity was had trying to lever my foot/ankle into the support following the supposedly 'simple' instructions (remember, I have trouble with sandwich wraps, let alone highly elastic ankle wraps. But you'd think a vet would be able to cope, wouldn't you??). The effect was instantaneous! It was like the pain was bathed in the breath of angels and carried away on clouds of candy floss. Oh yes! I fairly skipped around last night wearing that support. 'Look!' I was shouting, 'I can stamp my foot down really hard and it doesn' t hurt!!'

I had to take it off eventually because my toes were going blue and the elastic was grooving divots in my skin but when I got up this morning - BINGO! My foot is now a happy foot!!

Andy's Birthday Countdown

With less than a week to go, I have begun the preparations for Andy's birthday, which is this Monday coming. Andy likes birthdays. He likes cake. He likes presents. What isn't there to like about birthdays? Nothing, as far as Andy is concerned.

A few weeks ago, I said 'What would you like for your birthday, Andy?'
'I don't know,' he said, his eyes lighting up at the thought of sitting down and participating in that most enjoyable of tasks - 'The Making of a Birthday List.'
So he spends a couple of days putting together a list which invariably consists of various books, CDs, DVDs and electronic gaming equipment which have taken his fancy over recent months. Following a minor hiccup a couple of Christmases ago when he put 'Paper Shredder' on his list and was surprised when he actually got a paper shredder, he is more careful about what he asks for these days. (A bit like when I was a child. I wished once to live by the seaside; I ended up in Sheerness. Believe me, if you're going to make a wish, be VERY specific. I have since escaped Sheerness and put in a claim against the Wish Fairy that if she thinks Sheerness is the seaside, then she needs to a) get her eyes tested and b) get out more.)

Anyway, the list remained in Andy's study until I got fed up waiting for it to materialise so I could act upon its contents. So I went and purloined it from the study. Thanks to some tuition I've been doing and the chicken eggs I've been selling, I was able, mostly, to buy his presents with money I had earned myself, rather than what Andy has earned, and would therefore be akin to him buying his own presents with his own money. I still have a problem with not having my own money for present buying purposes. This is something I need to address by getting a small part-time job. But I digress...

I assessed the list. Optimistically, there was a section of Doctor Who cra...er...items which I studiously ignored because I refuse to encourage what I regard as an unhealthy Doctor Who fixation. I have brought him a large radio/ voice controlled Dalek in the past but that is as far as it's gone aside from the occasional book.

So, presents sorted, including a couple of things not on the list just to show I am capable of independent thought, I set about making other plans for 'THE BIG DAY.' I am especially pleased about one thing I have organised which, obviously I cannot divulge now because Andy reads this blog and I don't want to spoil the surprise, but I told the chickens to get their opinions.

'Well, it's not living at Cluckinghen Palace,' says Mrs Miggins. 'There isn't enough room.' Miggo is sitting under the gazebo at the back of the garden, trying her hand at a water colour still-life of some of the radishes she's grown in her raised bed.
'I'm not expecting it to,' I say.
'It's a bit noisy,' she continues. ' Irritatingly so, to my sensitive artistes' ears. And could you move, please? You are blocking my light.'
'It is noisy,' I admit. 'But very entertaining, don't you think?'
Mrs Miggins tilts her head to one side. 'I suppose,' she says. 'If that's the kind of thing that floats your boat. As long as you don't expect us to behave like that.'
'Of course not,' I say. 'This is for Andy's birthday.'
'His birthday? You've got him that for his birthday? Are you sure that's what he wants?' says Miggo. She stares thoughtfully at the aforesaid present. 'I suppose it has a certain je ne sais quoi.'
'I didn't know you spoke French,' I say.
'Do I?' says Miggins.
I wonder how much brush cleaner she's inhaled and leave her to her artistic ramblings.

So, having given a hint of one of Andy's presents knowing it will drive him NUTS for the next few days guessing what it could be, I shall go now and continue my celebration plans.

5 days to go...

And here is Miggo's still-life of her radishes. It's called 'Radish Still-Life.'

An engaging pose

In the rare moments of this all-gardening, all-allotmenteering Bank Holiday weekend that I got to read the papers and their supplements and my subcription magazines that turned up en masse because it is the start of a new month, I noticed there seemed to be a lot of articles devoted to the art of yoga. The Guardian on Saturday magazine had a double page spread of 10 yoga specialists posing in manners that, quite frankly, shouldn't be possible. Or allowed. Or encouraged.

I suppose being bendy and flexible in such a manner does have its advantages. Like being able to see the backs of your thighs for example, without having to perform contortions with mirrors or sneak into a shop changing room to get an all round decko of what's behind you. A couple of weeks ago I had a sudden itch right in the middle of my back. I had to get Andy to see what was going on. He declared the offending area looked like it had suffered a bite rather than been pimpled.

'Shall I take a photo?' he said.
'Yes please,' I said, because I like to see these things for myself. So he did. My itch looked like a moon-crater. But it is almost gone now, so hurrah!

Yoga is more than being bendy and flexible and having the ability to see behind you without turning around, though. It is a philosophy where you have to engage you mind with what your body is doing. Well, if I could do that, I wouldn't be constantly struggling with my weight, would I? But that's by-the-by.
'Do you really need that cheese scone, hot from the oven with a dollop of butter on it?' yells my mind.
'What scone?' says my body, too busy concentrating on how delicious the said scone and butter tastes.
'That scone there!' shrieks my mind.
'I see no scone,' says my body, licking a couple of crumbs, (I wonder where they came from?) off my fingers.

I think the fun starts going out of things when you introduce philosophy into them. I mean, I would do yoga just so I could go to parties and say 'Look, I can put my right toe in my left ear and balance on one hand at the same time.' Start saying things like you're engaging with the core of the universe in order to balance your centres and the party folk will soon start yawning and wandering off to find more canapes.

'I can do yoga,' says Phoebe. 'Look. This is called the 'Side-Extended Melon Ball.'

'That's not yoga,' I say. 'That's you resting on your HUGE bottom because you can't sit any other way to clean your tummy. If you didn't sit like that you'd roll over like a Weeble.'

'It's a proper yoga pose,' says Phoebe. 'I have been studying for many years under the famous yoga master Tuk-It Upanunda.'
'Oh really?' I say.
'Yes really,' says Phoebe. 'I am a Seventh Dumpling Pink Belt with a Nice Purple Trim. I could break your arm with a single flap of my wing.'
'That's swans,' I sigh.
'Whatever,' says Phoebe.

It's nice to know that all is well in Phoebe-World.

Excessive Breast-Stroke Woman (she who creates the tidal waves by going UP and DOWN in the water rather than through and forwards) does a kind of yoga in the pool every morning. She does these exercises that are a cross between yoga, aquaerobics and synchronised swimming. She has impossibly thin ankles and a nose clip. I'm not sure some of her moves are wise. They look like they might feature quite high on the 'Movements Likely to Cause Drowning' scale. But I guess when you've been doing these things day in and day out for years on end, you get obsessed with maintaining your routine no matter how bonkers you look whilst you are doing it.

I don't think I'll start doing yoga. Not just yet. My left leg is almost recovered from its Achilles tendon damage so, hopefully, I can start my running programme soon. And with all the allotmenteering and swimming I am doing, I'm feeling quite healthy at the moment. Adding another activity might just be asking for trouble.

Following the dream on a bicycle made for two.

There is an article in this month's Woman and Home magazine about achieving your dreams. Or at least, having a dream, then taking a chance and following it. Like mes amis en France, Vera and Lester. Who sold up here in England and moved to a place that found their hearts in south-west France. They have spent the best part of a year living in a series of little caravans/ gazebos/ awnings whilst making the first moves towards renovating their property and living a self-sufficient lifestyle. They have had the courage to make it happen. Bonkers too, but mostly courageous.

I read this magazine article with the first cup of tea of the day today. I wanted it to inspire me, offer a glimpse of hope, an idea about how Andy and I could set about realising our own dream of owning a small-holding (or at least a little cottage in the country with a whacking great garden.) What I really wanted to do was read about a couple (like us) who had a house and a small pot of savings (like us), who already grow their own veg and keep chickens (like us) and who found a place and did it up and then I could say 'We could do that, too.'

But no. It seemed that the people featured in the article all had the intial input of something called 'A LARGE SUM OF MONEY' to kick start their dream.

For example, one couple used the wife's HUGE redundancy pay-off to buy a business AND a cottage in Cornwall. Another couple pooled resources with their parents and grandparents, and sold the husband's SECOND property to buy a country mansion where they all live happily together under the same roof but with separate facilities. There was a lot of 'selling second/ third properties,' and 'using substantial savings/ redundancies' in order for these people to realise their dream lifestyles.

'That's no good,' I snort, after regaling Andy with these tales and trying not to spill tea on the duvet in sheer rage. 'Unless you have a second property or rich grandparents you haven't told me about.'
'Fraid not,' says Andy. 'Nor am I likely to be made redundant. And our savings would just about buy us a medium-size family saloon car, possibly with air-conditioning. Not a smallholding/ cottage with massive garden.'

'So how are we going to get our place in the countryside?' I ask.
'We have to have a plan,' says Andy. 'That is our downfall. We never have a plan.'
'Well, we do have a kind of plan,' I say. 'Tybalt, will you stop doing that you revolting creature.' Tybalt is sitting on the window sill licking up a tiny trickle of condensation. Very loudly. He is obsessed with condensation.
'Our plan,' I continue, 'is to buy a small-holding or cottage with large garden and grow our own fruit and vegetables, chickens, geese, pigs and bees and avoid other people as much as possible. It sounds like a pretty good plan to me.'
'It is,' says Andy. 'But what I mean is we need to just do it. Like Vera and Lester. They just got up and did it.'
'It took them quite a while to get there,' I say. 'It was a bit touch and go for a few months.'
'But they did it,' says Andy. 'And if we want our dream, we have to stop thinking about it and just do it.'

He's quite right of course. That's what we should do. Tomorrow we should call an estate agent and put the house on the market. And start looking for a place to buy. And let the tide of Fate sweep us along at whatever pace it wants. Fast, slow, easy or difficult, the skill is to tell yourself that the dream will happen and believe in it 100%.

Anyway, today I planted sweetcorn, squashes, pumpkins, sunflowers and late season leeks. I transplanted some herbs and the early leeks in an attempt to make them look more like pencils and less like sewing needles with bits of cotton hanging off them. It's good to have a dream. It's also important not to put your life on hold as you pedal your way towards it.

The Great Bank Holiday Polytunnel Project Day 2

With drill recharged and the additional equipment of a step-ladder to avoid a repeat of yesterday's inelegant dangling off the top rail and swearing a lot as he tried to attach important screws, Andy and I set off for the allotment for Day 2 of the polytunnel experience. At the allotment, yesterday's handiwork stood tall, proud and hoopy like a tall, proud, hoopy thing.

As Andy immersed himself in a pile of power tools and bits of wood and metal, I continued my weeding campaign from yesterday. I am pleased to report we are almost weed free and whatever weeds that pop up for the rest of the growing season can now be dealt with by a bit of swift hoeing. I also made two net cages for the many cauliflower seedlings ('We LOVE cauliflower, don't we Andy?' 'Mm-mmmmm,' says Andy) and cabbage seedlings that needed planting out, and sowed some seeds straight into the ground - red beetroot, golden beetroot, carrots and spring onions. I stood and admired the flowers on the blackberry bush and strawberry plants and whilst I was upside-down and head long 'neath the gooseberry bushes weeding out some buttercups, I noticed some tiny, weeny gooseberries starting to swell.

We both agree the allotment is looking pretty darn good at the moment!

Today I was called upon to hold the spirit level against the door frames and to draw lines on the door frames where the wood needed cutting as Andy stood, arms aloft, holding up the door frames. I resisted the urge to tickle him until the very last moment when naughtiness got the better of me. In I went for the tickle. Andy, alarmed, stepped back and trampled my raspberries. 'Mind the raspberries!' I shrieked. 'Mind my armpits,' shrieked back Andy. Touche!

My opinion was also required vis a vis the location of the diagonal brace bars.

'They don't look right, sitting at that angle,' said Andy, frowning 'neath his big floppy hat.
'What angle?' I said, because I couldn't see anything on account of the fact my even bigger floppy hat was rammed very tightly onto my head because of the wind. (Atmospheric, not personal.)

So we wiggled and jiggled the diagonal brace bars, slid them up and down a bit, turned them upside-down even but there was only one way they were going to fit as per the instructions, and that was the way Polytunnel Maestro Andy had fitted them.

A nice old chappie from the lottie across the way and along a bit mooched over and enquired after our polytunnel e.g where we got it, how much it cost, the pros and cons etc. He admired it and declared it a 'wonderful thing,' and then wandered off with the kind of wander that suggested he might very well be getting one himself.

And he was right, that nice old chappie. Our polytunnel is a wonderful thing. It adds gravitas and grace to our plot. It confirms that we are SERIOUS about growing our own organic food. That we have moved up a step on the self-sufficiency ladder. Walking up to unlock the main gate to let Andy drive through as we finished our allotment stint today (another 5 hours!), I found myself very much in mind to make a jazzy number '87' to add to identity our plot.

And here is another picture so you can see progress for today.

Polytunnel growing

How to grow a polytunnel:
1) Buy a packet of polytunnel seeds. You only get one in a packet and they aren't cheap, so make sure you wait until the time is right before sowing.
2) Take polytunnel seed from packet.
3) Plant seed. Water well.
4) Wait a day
5) Voila! Instant polytunnel!!

...and then Andy woke up...

Did you know that today was National Naked Gardening Day? No, neither did we until we got back from 5 and a half hours at the allotment and got to read the newspapers. What an opportunity we missed there.

Anyway, the sun was up, we were up, we were breakfasted (home grown eggs on home made bread toasted into toast), we packed plenty of water, insect repellent, pink radio and silly floppy hats, and off we went to the allotment to start the Great Bank Holiday Weekend Polytunnel Project. Andy had read the instruction book, watched the 'How to Build a Polytunnel' video on the internet, gathered together the relevant tools and braced himself for some Heavy Duty Man Building. Gggrrrrrrr!!!!

'You never know,' I said, as we zipped through town, 'someone might offer to give you a hand once you get started.'
'No!' said Andy. 'I don't want any help. I want to build this ALL BY MYSELF, do you hear? ALL BY MYSELF!!! Mwahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaa!!!!'

There was a look in Andy's eye. A look that said 'I want to build this polytunnel ALL BY MYSELF!!!Mwahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!'

So, I settled down to some serious weeding, and earthing up of potatoes (again...good grief, we'll have our own mountain range soon if they keep shooting up at this rate), and watering the beans and peas which are being very good and twirling themselves around the poles and netting I put up for them. And Andy settled himself down with a large tape measure, a long spirit level, a spade and several bits of meccano-type metals of various shapes, sizes and bendiness.

It was hot. The sun beat down mercilessly on our silly floppy hats. An insect landed on my arm ready to take a bite then flung itself off and expired when it tasted my eau de insect spray. If we had known it was National Naked Gardening Day we might have been tempted to give it our full support.

We swigged from our water supplies.
'I hope you are doing any diggin gover there!' shouted Andy. 'Don't make your foot worse now it's getting better.'
'Okay! I yelled back, surreptitiously hiding the fork behind my one good leg.

Periodically, I was summoned to assist with the process of accurate measuring. You have to get your corners and angles just right. Andy wasn't specific about what would happen if we were a bit skew-whiff with our corners and angles, but I imagine ripped polythene might figure heavily somewhere in the equation. Much use was made of Pythagoras's theorum, much jiggling of base plates and hoop anchors was done until the magic words 'That'll do. It's within tolerance,' were uttered.

And then! Up went the first hoop!!
'Good grief!' I said, staring into the sky. 'It looks like the Millennium Dome!'

Up went Hoop 2 and then Hoop 3. And then the top bar to hold it all steady. It is HUGE!!! Wow!!! And oddly enough, it has given personality to Plot 87.

Andy's screw driver ran out of power at this point so we went home.

And do you know what he's doing now, this very moment?

'What's he doing?' says Miggins, peering through the net curtains of Cluckinghen Palace at the banging going on on the lawn (yes, we have a bit of a back lawn growing back). 'He's disturbing my watching of Robin Hood.'
'He's building something,' says Mrs Poo.
'What?' says Miggins.
'Looks like doors for a polytunnel,' says Poo, who knows about these things, having once been an carpenter's apprentice before she hooked up with the Gemsta for a bit of Formula One mechanics.
'Not a toboggan then?' says Slocombe.
'Or a Swedish Sauna?' says Pumphrey, 'it looks like the door to a Swedish Sauna to me.'
'Definitely a polytunnel door,' says Poo. 'I hope he watches what he's doing with that hammer though. What with it being National Naked Gardening Day.'

A dodgy moment of fictional frolic

When I'm in a good writing flow I don't really have to think about plot. Provided my characters have established themselves, they sort out what they're going to get up to by themselves. All I have to do is type the words as they spill into my head. And sometimes they can surprise me, my characters, with the decisions they make about their lives. It's a bit like being in charge of stroppy teenagers and recalcitrant oldies, or dysfunctional siblings and awkward friends. Fiction, I say, is closer to the truth than we think.

Take yesterday. I found myself writing some back story for Blue, who is Indigo's younger brother. He is also a twin, which only I and Nina (the mother, if you can call her that, she's a bit of a cow really) know. I thought Nina ought to be in on this plot point as she was the one who gave birth to Blue and his twin. I did wonder if I could get away with her having two babies but retaining memory of only one, but thinking back to the two labours I've been through and the fact that 23 years down the line I'm still trying to shift the post-baby fat and stop waking up every 4 hours for feeding time, I discounted this idea as a fantastical whim. So Marcus (Blue's twin) is very much alive and kicking and waiting to wreak vengeance on his harridan mother (I imagine. I would. But I haven't written him in yet so I don't know his take on the situation of maternal abandonment).

Back to Blue. Blue, it transpires, is a naughty boy. And when I say 'naughty', I don't mean scribbling on his bedroom wallpaper in green crayon like my Chris did when he was three. 'How did you know it was me, Mummy?' he said when I confronted him about the graffiti. 'You signed your name,' I said. He can be a bit transparent like that, can Chris.

No, Blue, at the age of 13, is revealed to be naughty in a promiscuous way.
'You can't do that!' I say in shock as I re-read what I've just written.
'I can,' says Blue. 'I just did.'
'But you're only 16,' I say, trying to delete the bit of hanky panky that was appearing before my eyes.
'16 years and 9 months,' says Blue. 'You just worked it out, remember?'

I admit I did. Blue was born at the end of September and this episode, with girlfriend Polly in the Shell House, happens just after they've finished their GCSEs the year following his 16th birthday.
'Oh yes,' I say, looking at my scribble pad where I try to keep track of continuity regarding dates, times, years etc so I don't have characters going to the supermarket for milk two years after they've met a grizzly end under a Nissan Micra.
'And I've been behaving like this since I was 13,' says Blue.
This also is true. Quite frankly, I'm appalled. So is his mother, but she's more forgiving of his behaviour than me, probably because a) he is the favoured child and b) she's having guilty mother feelings about abandoning twin Marcus.

'Anyway,' says Blue. 'You can always look away if you're feeling prudish.'
'This,' I say primly, 'is going to be a literary novel of quirky and original proportions. I'll not have it littered with hormonal teenagers. By the way, I can see your pants over the top of your jeans.'
'This is the cool way to wear a jean/pants combo,' says Blue. The crotch of his jeans is dangling somewhere around his kneecaps; his pants are bright orange. He's right, of course. I've seen lads around town sporting this very look. In public, would you believe? I always try not to point and giggle when I see them. It's not a good look and I think somewhere, some fashion guru is having a big old laugh at the expense of our teenage population.

'You have forgotten one important point,' I say, consulting my continuity notes. 'This isn't 2009, young Blue. It's only 2000. You are way ahead of time with your jean/pants combo.'
'So what am I wearing?' he asks, looking over my shoulder at my laptop screen.
'I haven't elucidated that point,' I say. 'But if I did, it would probably be something like surf shorts. Or shell pants.'
'NO WAY!' yells Blue. 'NO WAY AM I WEARING EITHER OF THOSE THINGS. THEY'RE SKANK! AND MINGING!'
'Skank?' I repeat. 'Minging? They are not words I'll be including in my narrative.'
'You can't make me wear those things,' says Blue.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. Here is my chance to regain control of this wayward character who is causing me a dodgy creative moment.

But, as both Andy and Vera have said (and they've both read the first few thousand words of the first draft of this latest project), I've just got to go with the flow because that is what is making this book so different from anything else I've ever written.

I sigh.
'Clear off Blue,' I say, giving him a shove. 'I need to catch up with what Violet's been doing since she left university and married Jensen.'
'Jensen?' splutters Blue. 'What kind of a name is Jensen?'

'Hush your mouth, you,' I say. 'Just remember that you, Mr Trendy Jean/Pants combo are named after a German Shepherd dog I once owned.'