What I did today

I did nothing. Well, mum and dad looked after me, cooked me lovely food and I spent the time I wasn't eating in bed, resting. (S was playing cricket all day, one of the last in the season.)

I've not had such a relaxed day in years. I didn't think I knew how...

Domestic therapy

When I was younger, I baked regularly. From about the age of eight, I blended cake mixture (and licked the spoon and scraped the bowl), pounded pastry for delicious fruit pies, rolled out biscuits and generally did kitchen-esque things that would make Delia proud.

The art of making food – the textures, aromas, anticipation, salivation – have always been therapy from the stressors that have bothered me. I felt warm and safe in the kitchen, where I had my own corner of the counter as my mum went about making a Sunday roast. (I was tidy, showing early signs of Monica-from-Friends tendencies that have stayed with me, but it was a useful trait when dealing with flour and eggs...)

I especially enjoyed serving my creations to my family and friends. In fact, when I was in my twenties, I used to bake banana bread every Sunday for my colleagues. There was never much left by Monday lunchtime. Sometimes, I'd have a slice myself.

So, this afternoon, following a week where I felt churned up and deeply upset for a variety of rather heavy reasons, I Googled for a recipe for scones (as I knew I'd already have the necessary ingredients) and voilà...



The scones tasted good. Even if I do say so myself. And my headache disappeared as the smell of baking emanated from the oven. I can see myself spending a good few hours in the kitchen as autumn (lovely autumn!) approaches.

Holiday! Celebrate!

Not one of Madonna's better songs, but, hey... I'm off work – on Holiday! – for two weeks as of this afternoon, and am deeply pleased. We'll be in a beautiful part of England for part of the break, in a small, beautiful cottage that nestles in hills.

I shall report back with pictures and tales in a week or so. In the meantime, today, I have about 2,000 things to do. So I had better get cracking. Have a good week, one and all.

Valentine's Day or not...

...I hope you've had a good one. Eat some fine chocolate, drink some delicious wine, have a cup of tea and some cake, put your feet up. Be good to yourself.

Too cold to go out

I'm waiting for a call to see where my friend (and her new boyfriend) want to go tonight. I would much rather stay home, though. It is very cold outside and I hate being cold. I don't know what to wear. I wish she would hurry up so that I can a) get ready and b) tell S, who is stuck at work (waiting for news of our venue) where to meet.

I realise I sound a tad miserable, not wanting to go out just because it is cold. But the going out will involve me waiting for a bus (if I want to drink and not drive) and that means I have to walk in the cold to the bloody freezing bus stop.

Pants. On. Fire.

Sweeney Todd, hmm...

I wasn't impressed with Sweeney Todd. Maybe it's my own fault. I don't like many musicals but I thought the combination of Johnny Depp, Alan Rickman and Helena Bonham-Carter et al would do the trick and make the annoying enjoyable (and, yes, the songs were very annoying).

Most people will know the plot (I didn't) but suffice to say, I was not convinced that Depp conveyed enough madness to successfully portray a man who'd lost his wife – and was about to lose his daughter for good – and behaved so amorally as a result.

Take Hannibal Lecter. You admire him in some way. He is intelligent – fiercely so. And he snaps with humour that doesn't spring from softness. Hopkins's flashing eyes, his thin smile: a proper demon. But Depp? Well, his performance reminded me of Russell Brand, Captain Jack Sparrow, Amy Winehouse, Mick Jagger and other glottally-stoppered folk who were simply in a terribly bad mood. He was flat, I thought. There was no menace there. I didn't like to look straight at the screen during the killing scenes but it wasn't through suspense, it was just that I don't like gore.

The film is literally colourless and the CGI made it flatter yet. London, referred to in the opening song (cringe) was wasted as a character. It's a gloomy film, left me wondering what all the fuss was about, and that was that. Average: C+. Could do better.

Anyway, en route to the cinema, S and I went into a tiny pub that was so small it was like being in someone's front room. A real fire burned. We had enough time to have a drink before Sweeney Todd started – a lovely forty minutes or so that helped to make the film worthwhile. And, on our way home, we both talked non-stop, agreeing with each other and with all of the above.

London: another kiss

I love London. Love, like you could love a person. It has its faults, benefits, beauty, ugliness, character, style, brittleness, warmth and can either bring you down or inspire you.

I know which bits of London inspire me, and, as a Londoner, I know them well. Their pavements and parks have the imprint of my heels at some molecular level. I go to them sometimes serendipitously because my bus takes me past – or to – them depending on where I am working. Other places involve a short or long drive at the weekend. And there is the part of London in which I live – it has pockets of beauty that may inspire me to buy a new camera soon, seeing as my current one no longer works. The formerly trusty Canon now takes pictures that are criminally underexposed, leaving me with the hint of an interesting photograph. I couldn't live in a concrete-dominated area with no trees, parks, waterways or space to breathe.

Last week, I had so much to do that I worked on Saturday, but I don't mind doing so now and again because there is always something to do in the evening: a sweet carrot. I went with two friends to watch a third friend take part in a comedy competition. S was still away, or he would definitely have come along. We used to go to live comedy frequently when we first met – The Comedy Store in the West End was a particular favourite, and we also went to smaller, more intimate venues around the capital. We've found a couple of places close enough to where we live that we can walk there and back, which means we can drink beer (or in my case, Guinness) while we watch. The comedy contest was a good night. We complained about the standard of some of the acts and sat back with surprised laughter when some of these fledgling acts managed to make the room chuckle in a good, rather than embarrassed manner.

The night before that, I went to the cinema – the film was good but the price to get in and the cost of popcorn these days is madness (something not-so-good about London, though this may just be the case with Odeon cinemas everywhere). On Sunday, having slept pretty badly (partly due to work stress, partly due to the pain in my rib), I drove to Kings Road, Chelsea, to wander with no agenda and no one to meet – exactly what I needed.

Chelsea is fantastic. Not just because it has shops, no, but it is not crowded and feels spacious for a main street, has little cafés where you need not spend more than a fiver on lunch, and is head and shoulders above its nearby cousin, Kensington High Street. Also, I discovered a road where you can park free on Sundays – a huge bonus that is going to remain secret.

I did buy a few clothes, one of which was a jacket that had an extra forty quid slashed off the price tag at the till, rendering it bargainous. Then, I had a slow lunch while I read a magazine and people-watched before going for a walk and then driving home. There was some traffic but I didn't mind too much – the route home was fairly scenic, and once on the main road, it was very quick.

Back at my castle, I flumped on to the warm sofa with M, the rabbit, by my side and watched a DVD. Maybe you can do similar things anywhere, but in London there is a lot of what I like on offer with little effort involved to enjoy it. Maybe it is that I know where to find what I like. This city is vast. Rivers, yes rivers, incredible history, a plethora of entertainment, wide green parks, good food, style, art, culture, views, and most of all? Home.

Cleaning up

I gain a great deal of satisfaction from being in my home when it is clean, as it is now. Normally, there is a pile of clean clothes to put away, another pile of things that need to be washed, odds and ends to sort out, and a few papers dotted here and there. Nothing too terrible, but still.

I walk around looking at the clean rooms. It's not minimalist or huge, but it's comfortable, bright and warm. Sometimes I survey my kingdom (well mine and S's kingdom) two or three times, and then I sit down, sigh with satisfaction and drink a cup of tea.

Is this normal?

Remedy for a stressful day

First course:
See The Golden Compass...
Oxford and its spires
Magic
Good witches
Escapism
Imagination (that of the writer, Mr Pullman)...

Followed by:
Home, sweet home
Hot risotto
Cold ale
S calling me from Paris
M, rabbit, sitting nearby
Me, dozy and warm

Dear morning

One of the good things about having to get up early at the weekend is that you feel like you are stealing time. It's quiet, no one else is around, and if the sun is pouring in through the windows, as it is today, you slowly start to feel energised and awake.

Tea, toast with butter and honey. A happy rabbit at my feet. And some melodious music. I don't have to start thinking yet.
----------------
Listening to: Massive Attack - Joy Luck Club
(This link doesn't take you to the song for some reason; see 'Collected' if you want to hear this exquisite song)

back, Back, BACK!

I have been away (in case, like, I was missed)...

1) I climbed a mountain for the first time. Without stopping. And it was lashing with rain at the top – and all the way down.
2) I learned that I am a darn good shot (70% success using a rifle – a proper rifle) for clay pigeon shooting. I even hit the moving targets on my very first two shots. Proud? Bugger, yes. I was good. Even the shooting man said so.
3) I am not so hot at driving a quad bike (ATV) as it is tricky to manouevre unless thine shoulders are mighty strong. So, I was a passenger instead (v scary but exhilarating).

Details and pictures will follow once life is back to normal, whatever that is...

Lovely rain

After two very hot days that have darkened and burned me, I am relieved that it is raining this morning. It is warm outside but I can breathe more easily. And I will be able to work (despite being on holiday, as much as any freelancer can have a holiday) more easily knowing the day is not glorious.

My arms ache after doing kung fu for an entire day over the weekend in the blazing sunshine. That was extremely tiring. I sat at home yesterday as the sunshine poured into the front room, trying not to fall asleep on the sofa. I nodded off a couple of times with the Eastenders omnibus on in the background – it possibly hastened my sleepiness rather than keeping me alert.

I wish, I wish, I wish that the sleep programme was over so I could have just stretched out and slept. My body so craved it that my head thumped violently all afternoon.

Later on, I met my friend, V, who has the air of Audrey Hepburn about her (her mother is Russian and she has dramatic, dark looks). We walked to a local wine bar, sat outside watching people drift by, and chatted about all sorts of things. It was an easy, gentle way to spend the latter part of the day. V gives the impression of being a perennial joker but offers some crystal clear insights on some quite dark subjects. Sometimes, we say the same things at the same time and laugh at the synchronicity.

My headache intensified as the evening wore on and by the time a very brown S got back home after a day of cricket, I was in quite a bit of pain. He stroked my head, which helped. Getting into bed and lying on fresh linen is a distant memory now. I slept well.

10 minutes later: the sun is out in its loveliness. So much for the rain. Oh well, at least I won't have to water the garden... But how will I ever get down to any work?

Wakey wakey

The sun was pale as we made our way to SS's birthday party on an island in the Thames. He had a great turnout and was in a jolly mood. A fair number of journalists and writers were gathered there, and everyone was separated by just one degree. It's a small, incestuous world, London hackdom.

As we stood outside, watching the Thames rush by at an alarming speed, raindrops began to spatter on the tall, leafy trees above, which provided adequate shelter for a little while. Eventually, we went inside to chat and eat nibbles. Some people played pool, others drank and became progressively red-eyed while conversation flowed (regardless of alcohol intake). A large fluffy cat, the colour of fudge and chocolate (white, dark and milk), loitered, waiting for strokes and scraps.

With each passing hour, the rain increased in intensity, calling fat slugs and various island creatures out. I didn't look at the ground too closely as my feet hit the sodden pathway. It was very dark but occasional lights threw the shapes of night-time creatures into shiny silhouettes.

By the time I got home, my 'earliest time to go to bed' had been and gone, and I still faced getting up at 7am today no matter what. And I just couldn't nod off. I stuck my earplugs in but the one in my left ear was extremely painful so I had to ease it out, which meant I could hear GFG walking around downstairs and S doing his business around the flat.

Tired? God, yes. But I am cheered that this week is to be sunny. I don't know why but the rays always imbue me with a certain energy that is otherwise elusive. I am seeing reiki lady today. I hope I don't fall asleep. It is not allowed.

Natural beauty

The sun shone in London yesterday, making the Hampton Court Flower Show far more spectacular than it would have been under mizzle or gloomy grey skies. Stating the obvious, maybe, but without rays of sun, the huge lake in the grounds of Hampton Court, the water features and the flowers may not have reflected and glinted and winked with such an inviting eye.

The funny thing about the 'show' is that it's really a sale. A sale of flowers, greenery, garden furniture, outdoor ideas and all sorts of artsy-craftsy things that appeal to those who love their homes and relish (and have time for) their gardens.

The majority of people there were 40-plus (or more likely, 50-plus) and they had among them, quite a bit of disposable income. They'd need to. You pay £25 a ticket to enter the event, for goodness sake. And, if you know no better, the car park would set you back £9. Staggering exploitation, car park-wise. That's £34 before you even see a petal or leaf.

I mean, look at this garden – it's a tiny section of the whole. You'd need a huge house and large space to accommodate this and make it look good. Some of the displays were stunning, though, and there was a lovely, tiny wooden summerhouse, painted pale pink, that I instantly fell in love with. It had a pointed roof and a comfortable seat; its windows were shuttered, I think. It cost £8,000-ish, but it was dreamy. And in my dreams is where it must remain.

There were many plants on sale, many of which we admired, but none of which we bought. (I succumbed to an exquisite coat, though: er, Happy Birthday to me – well it is later this month)... We had lunch outside, followed by a cream tea (again, outside) and then sat on the banks of the lake as a brood of cygnets and their mother glided by. I was happy to be wearing one of my New Summer Skirts, finally! And my legs caught a bit more colour. Hurrah.


It was a lovely day – peaceful. Even the security men walking around with their black labradors were singing "Lazy Sunday Afternoon" as they patrolled.

• • •

The day, with its blend of fresh air and walking, was a recipe for a good night's sleep. But no, not in my case. I did some kung fu when we got home but I was still quite sleepless. Plus ça change.

The bosom of home

I've spent much of this afternoon visiting my lovely parents for a long lunch. They are so lovely that I can't believe I am their product at times.

They understand me, feed me, never judge and never let me feel that I have to make an effort if I'm feeling low/tired/rubbish/stressed/irritable. I am a lucky, lucky, lucky person. I know this and it makes me tearful at times.

Don't get me wrong – I'm not some brat who has sailed through a privileged, moneyed life. Some horrible things have happened. Anyway, my parents worked harder – uncomplainingly – than most people I know, to get by.

If it wasn't for my parents being who they are, I dread to think what might have become of me. They are the best. I would have to damage anyone who said otherwise.

Sunday morning alarm

It's very peaceful. And very warm already. No one is around.

The rabbits have been fed and are skipping around, pattering on the floor with happiness and full bellies.

I have the window open and am drinking from a huge cup of tea with a slice of lemon in it.

But I wish I could go back to bed... Everyone else in the street is snoozing. That's how it feels. It's like a secret world. When my alarm buzzes at 7am every morning – every morning! – I feel like a spy, getting up to carry out a secret mission before normal people are conscious. Sundays are worst.

Update: am listening to the radio. Apparently there is to be an 'international Maddy day' for missing four-year-old Madeleine McCann, and the parents want J K Rowling to insert 'Maddy bookmarks' inside her new Harry Potter books. Why does this make me feel so deeply irritated?

Lovely lilas

The smell of one hundred barbecues (including the one we had here) no longer fills the air. For I have closed the windows and lit a Diptyque 'lilas' candle that I bought while I was on my short but wonderful trip to Paris earlier this year.

I had to close the window – and not because of the barbecue smell, either. I like the smell of barbecues. Thing is, some of our neighbours have a questionable taste in music. Really, for people with a lovely home and who are indeed very pleasant, they do own some ghastly stuff.

Anyway, if they want to stoke up an evening in that fashion, that's up to them but they had their music on one of those iPod speaker things in their manicured garden. I'm sure lots of our fellow barbecuers could hear the strains of MOR tunes interfering with the chitter chatter and chinkle of tipsy laughter.

It was, however, one of those situations where we Couldn't Say Anything as it Had Gone on For Ages and we'd exchanged niceties. I can hear them now; they are as drunk as lords. I shall have to go to bed soon (sleep programme... yadda yadda). It's been very warm today but I will have to sleep with the window closed to shut them out. Pah.

Because I'm worth it

After the day/weeks I've had of late, I felt I needed a new toy. This is not simply an indulgence. It is a necessity.

Obviously, it's good that I haven't just gone out and bought another pair of boots or shoes. Where would I put them, anyway? Indeed, there are several salient reasons:

• It is red (my favourite colour).
• It will be compatible with my iMac, which is not the case with my current MP3 player. Too complicated for words.
• It will enhance my commutes (many hours of my life...).
• It benefits charidee (I have to admit, ashamedly, that this is simply coincidental).

Punch drunk

Bloody hell, I've got bruised knuckles. The bones of my left hand are dark and red, slightly swollen and painful. Kung fu was (is) brilliant. I feel bloody excellent after my session. I was tired as heck, but after the day I've had, it was pure catharsis, so much so that I have introduced a new label to my blog: pleasure. Had I had a good day, I'd be shouting from the rooftops. I couldn't do much due to my ongoing hip problem (possibly caused by going slightly mental in class while kicking a few weeks back) but it was nevertheless great.

My commutes to and from work have been transformed due to the finding of the MP3 player. Wonderful. I close my eyes and can switch off for at least two hours a day.

And, this evening, I learned that Gordon was told by the publisher to work as agreed or walk. I can't say that someone possibly losing work pleases me – it doesn't – but my goodness, some people not only hang themselves by what they do and say, but they also buy rope, plant a big tree, fix the knots and even fork out on a new stepladder before leaping off.

Anyway, come what may, work is work. And, despite waking up sodding early for several days and working like a hound, tonight I feel fucking fantastic.

Pastoral sympathy

Valley, Polesden Lacey, Surrey © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

Polesden Lacey – an Edwardian stately home where King George VI and the Queen Mother honeymooned – and its grounds (the North Downs) provide balm for the soul. It is an ideal setting to spend a long afternoon when you feel full or health, or are full of tiredness, as I was/am.

S and I walked around the grounds for so long that we missed the last entry time for the house. But it didn't matter too much as we'd visited the house once before and I could recall that it is opulent and filled with gorgeous artifacts, as are most National Trust properties.

There was wisteria hanging from the house, which is immediately surrounded by beautifully manicured gardens. I stared at the wisteria greedily, wishing this season of lilac-blue flowers and twisted grey-silver branches could be endless. But, if that were the case, my beloved autumn and the colours and shiny conkers and chestnuts over which I lust yearly would never arrive.

The wind – which had an edge of warmth rather than ear-chill – made the long grass undulate like shiny waves, and at certain angles, the buttercups dominated the fresh, green grass while brave baby rabbits popped out of their warrens to feed.

Pathway, Polesden Lacey, Surrey © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

This shady pathway was one of several that led from the house to the valley. It brought back images from fairytales I read as a child. As you walked, small creatures scuttled, not as afraid of the human species as you might expect. It was quiet but you knew – and felt – that the place was teeming with life.

Cow scratching her face, near Polesden Lacey, Surrey © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

This large, nut-brown creature with luscious eyelashes (she was the only one of her herd with a clean-ish tail, too) came over to investigate as we leaned on the barbed wire fence, eager to see as much of these gentle animals as possible. She gazed at us unblinkingly, walked over to the tree and had what looked like a thoroughly good scratch.

I badly, badly, badly wanted to sleep on the drive back home (S drove). But I couldn't, obviously. I managed to avoid lying down and napping when we got home, as per sleep guru P's instructions – or, should I say 'orders' – and fell into bed at 11.30pm. I slept fairly well but had to wake and get up early, as per P's orders. I hope I get used to this process. It's tough. I am, often, running on empty.