I bought a few bags of pickling onions and bottles of vinegar in Morrisons, and am now the proud owner of three massive jars of pickled onions in dark spicy vinegar which will be ready in plenty of time for Christmas. I am saving small jars, which will shortly be filled with delicious chilli jam. For me, there is so much pleasure in the seasonal tasks, filling up the larder ready for Christmas, even if it is going to look very different this year.
My sister has an allotment and yesterday presented me with a bagful of butternut squashes the size of my head. I made roasted butternut squash and harissa salad (without the salad) for tea, perfect for a cold rainy October night, especially with smoked bacon to deepen the moment. And I saved the seeds and roasted them in a dry pan with salt, black pepper and garlic powder and they popped – like popcorn. They weren't quite as tasty as the real thing (especially Aldi popcorn – vanilla and coconut or peanut butter popcorn yum) but still a nice little crunchy snack. And the remainder will be used to make squash, sweet potato and pepper soup, perfect topped with a ton of grated cheese, and just about the only food that everyone in my family will eat.
I just finished listening to 'The Thursday Murder Club' by Richard Osman, on audio book and I absolutely loved it! I thought about it every morning before I got up, and looked forward to going to bed every night so that I could discover what happened next. It was a complete joy and I felt bereft when I reached the end, Unlike most murder mysteries I have read, I wasn't bothered about racing to the end to find out whodunnit, and how or why; it really didn't matter, as the enjoyment came from the reading of the book, rather than the conclusion. Richard Osman's book did not disappoint at all, or only in that it had to end. But I am consoled by the knowledge that he is writing a sequel, and also because another audio book I had reserved, 'The Moonflower Murders' by Anthony Horowitz has just popped up in my BorrowBox. I can hardly contain my excitement. It is narrated by Leslie Manville (who also did The Thursday Murder Club), and although I am only a few chapters in, I love love love it! And when I have finished it, I have Invisible Girl by Lisa Jewell reserved too.
Having a good book on the go really lifts my mood, which is very welcome at the moment. There isn't a lot to be cheerful about, with increasing restrictions and uncertainty about the future, and that is without considering the worries about my friends and family becoming ill and the ramifications. And then on Sunday the clocks go back and the gloom and doom is further magnified. I realise that I have always felt this way at this time of year. I recently came across an essay written in a school book when I was eight or nine. The teacher had asked us to write about what we should like to happen in the future. I wrote that there should be cameras on every lamp post so that children could feel safe walking home in the dark. Mr C was a little freaked out when he read it, believing me to have been a future teller, predicting the introduction of CCTV. I wasn't; I was just scared of walking home in the dark on my own, and even wrote to the Prime Minister at the time, asking him to stop messing about with the clocks, although he replied that he was not able to help. Mmm! However that feeling of dread that accompanied the changing of the clocks has stayed with me into old ladyhood. Even the approach of Christmas, which usually begins to cheer me up when darkness creeps in, is not enough this year. We are a family with six almost adult children, most of whom have partners, in a household of 5. So if everyone is home, we will have space for one of them to visit (assuming that we can still mix households by Christmas). If I could choose who that visitor would be, of course it would be our new grandchild (who is due to arrive in just over a week), but I can't imagine that his/her parents would allow it. I heard a snippet on the news with someone advising that we should prepare for 'a digital Christmas', and my heart sank. This will mean no family wreath making extravanza (although I have plans for an alternative), no Christmas lights safari, no need to get the extra leaves out so we can fit everyone around the dining table, no Boxing Day at my sister's with my nieces and nephews (great and not so great). I should count my blessings as unless it all changes again, we will at least be able to see everyone, just not altogether. I think of friends who have no chance of seeing their family at Christmas or anytime soon, and feel guilty for moaning. As they say on Love Island, or at least they used to 'It is what it is", so a little self imposed silence may be a good idea.
The dogs have a new bed. It is like a massive fluffy donut and the joy on their faces when they first encountered it was beautiful to see. Paddy was in the laundry when he first spotted it (washing his smalls) and he ran towards it, taking a flying leap at the last minute, landing perfectly in the centre. It is so huge that it takes up a lot of the kitchen and I worry that it might get a bit smelly and that I won't notice it, being accustomed as I am to living with dogs. Polly is usually the smelliest, probably because she has longer ears which always seem to trail in the gravy when she is given the leftovers from Sunday lunch. Gravy ears are not the best!
L wants to get her septum pierced and has been trying to persuade me by telling me how she could flip up the nose ring so it would be undetectable, and how it is virtually painless as there is a sweet spot for a pain free piercing. Good luck with that. I think it will kill. We consulted google and read all about infections, complications and pain, and when she wanted to look at images, I accidentally typed in septum piercing deformities in the search bar. Taking a balanced view, I have agreed that she can have it done in the Summer after her first year of A Levels, in the hope that she might have forgotten all about it by then. Her hair has been all the colours of the rainbow since we went into Lockdown, and she currently has thick swathes of turquoise blue. She is a girl after my own heart in the eyeliner department and would put Amy Winehouse in the shade. I am making a conscious effort to say yes to her more often, in the knowledge that she is more responsible than I was at her age, and that she needs to find her own way. I listened to an interview with Dawn French last week, and when asked what advice she would offer to new parents, she said that although it is hard to contemplate, it is necessary to accept that your children will be different to you, wanting and liking different things. I did many stupid things and certainly was no angel at her age, (and didn't become one until well into my forties.) So actually I don’t want her to be like I was at 15, but perhaps how I was at 43, young in spirit but wise enough to recognise the hazards and avoid the dangers. But she is who she is, and I am embracing her emo spirit and her wacky appearance. She wears DMs like I used to; mine were accessorised with thick black tights, whereas she wears fishnet tights although very different from the ones we had in the 80s. Most fish would slip through the mesh in these nets tho' they would be perfect if you were in the market for a dolphin or manta ray.
As I was getting ready to go out this morning, my elder daughter T told me I looked good! I was wearing trousers and a jumper, and knew from her rye smile that this meant not conventionally good.
'Do I look like a boy?' I asked, knowing exactly what she meant.
'Yes, but in a good way,' she replied. I have always worried that I look like a boy, and this worry probably stems from all the times when I have actually been mistaken for one. The most devastating was when I was wearing a skimpy bikini, feeling outrageously glamorous, ordering beers at a rooftop bar in Malta, aged 21. I have never looked less like a boy in my life than I did that day, although admittedly, my hair was short. It happened again on Tuesday when I was waiting to be let out of the doctor's after a physio appointment.
'I'll just get the door Sir' said the receptionist. I told her I was a lady, and she tried to explain it away, digging deeper and deeper, but I was not fooled. Maybe I should grow my hair again. What a decision to have to make - is it preferable to look like an old lady or a man? I suppose it depends on whether it's an old man....
News update. I am finding it hard not being able to get out running, (physio is going well btw, he's very pleased with my progress but it will be a few months until I am able to get back on the streets) In the meantime, there's plenty to keep me busy at home.
There is no news on the book front. I have approached another agent, but it's all very quiet. I am excited to now have two works in progress, and I am certain that they will keep me busy writing in the dark months ahead. The devil makes work for idle hands, and I am not planning on letting him in. I was dreading the prospect of being confined to the house when the days were shorter and it was colder outside, but I am desperately trying to embrace it. There are too many other things to be grumpy about, but whilst there are still bright skies overhead, trees with leaves in all the colours of the rainbow (except perhaps blue), squirrels running along the top of the fence, and acorns and beech nuts to crunch underfoot, I am attempting to enjoy it. And coffee with friends helps a lot. Long may it continue.
Stay safe, happy and well.
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