Insulation

Perhaps it's because it's cold out that I am eating extra biscuits and chocolate. I have even left several bananas longer than I normally would, specifically to speckle, so that I can bake a loaf of banana bread that has been described as "f*cking awesome" by someone who reviewed the recipe (I will share it if it is this good).

I will bake later. I can't wait. Hello, double chin.

Friend or foe?

There is an organisation that purports to bring together women who are about to have babies. It sometimes even welcomes the men in their lives, acknowledging that they, too, are about to become parents.
The idea is to create support networks and to educate these fledgling parents by explaining what happens in labour, childbirth and, if you are lucky (which I wasn't) you'd learn how to bathe a newborn, how to change her or him and perhaps get beyond the 'breast is best' brainwashing. Encouragement and guidance = good. Guilt and emotional blackmail = deeply damaging for some women (so: BACK OFF).
This cost around £300. I wish I could have that money back. There is so much, so much, that I could use it for. Even if I were to buy fairy lights and string them about my person, purchase a few bottles of glitter and decorate my face, some new shoes, some chocolate cake, a daily latte... all of these things would be worth more than the five-hour long sessions that peppered my pregnancy. Yes. Someone in their wisdom decided that Sunday afternoon sessions that stretched from midday till 5pm – without a break – would be a good idea. Being pregnant and sitting in one place all day, during the summer, without a chance to walk or eat properly, is really what you want, isn't it...
Anyway, aside from the lack of teaching anything remotely useful, this organisation also failed in its promise of sisterhood bonding. What a surprise that early proximity and the intimacy of the subject matter, which made the seven couples seem to get on, eventually result in bitchiness I've only ever encountered in a playground. One woman claimed in one breath to have been violated by a midwife (she used the phrase, "it was like rape"), and in the next, discussed how she'd get her bits sewn up "so they were just like they used to be" for "her man's pleasure". Nice to share that after one meeting, dear.
The other women in the group ranged from being fairly nice to weirdly competitive – so stupidly competitive that they'd comment negatively, with smug faces, on how much posset (milk) other babies brought up after a feed (erm, they ALL do it). The group existed for about four months once the babies had arrived and then it splintered as alliances based on levels of wine-love and woman-hate were established. My midwife, who became a friend, told me she sees this "all the time". Sad. The effect on me was initially deeply hurtful. Fresh into motherhood and having been ill due to it, I felt alone and confused outside my immediate family. Hormones helped to compound this. However, I did keep a friend from that group and we found common ground beyond our babies and are still in touch, albeit infrequently.
My friends from 'before' were – mainly – as ever, and I love them for it. And I have met some wonderful women since that pseudo-bonding £300 experience (yes, I am bitter about that cash!), who have enriched my life. My child has plenty of fun with their children. I have plenty of fun with them. It's relaxed company, and like the best things in life, is free. Apart from the occasional latte and glass of wine.

Rain dear

I was quite pleased it rained today after the lovely long days of sunshine. The garden was thirsty and it was comforting to hear the patter of drops on the windows.

(I hope the sun comes back soon, though...)

Ducking the ducks

Well, we didn't really duck the ducks (or the geese), but they were very funny company as S and I sat by a lovely lake today. The sun shone and we lazed on a blanket all afternoon, as our feathered friends strutted around eyeing us for bits of our picnic. They were partial to M&S bacon rasher crisps and even pecked at pieces of jalapeno chili tortilla chips, which worried me slightly.

As we lay back, we listened to snatches of conversations from the passersby who would occasionally stop and sit on a nearby bench, their words carried to us on the gentle breeze. It was a lovely, lovely day. Just the thing to follow our hectic day of packing boxes yesterday in preparation for our home move.

A day in the sun

I felt rotten – dizzy and sick – until I ventured into my back garden and potted a plant that I will be taking to the new place. The fresh air and warmth were like magic. Said plant had been suffering under the shadow of the massive clematis and was straining to reach light and was probably starved of water and suchlike. I imagine the clematis roots spread far and wide.

The sunshine on my arms felt good. I've been stuck inside for what feels like months, feeling pretty rotten. And when I am inactive I feel the cold more acutely than I would otherwise. So, it was great to get outside. Then, my neighbour popped round and gave me a present, totally unexpected, and beautifully thoughtful. When we move, I'll think of them as current friends, not old neighbours.

Later, I went for a drive and succumbed to a McDonald's (I know, I know...). I ate it overlooking the green nearby, the sun shining on me, my CD player on. Next, I went home, sat on the sofa, stuck on a CD that a friend had given me for Christmas (Sarah Slean – very good, like a female Ben Folds) and I finished the novel I was reading. S came home later, exhausted, having spent seven hours cleaning his little boat, as he's selling it. He had caught the sun and hadn't eaten all day but looked happy with his work.

It turned out to be a lovely day. Peaceful and warm. Bliss.

Diamond sky

I remember some of the dream I had last night. It was one of the most beautiful I've had to date. There were people I love in it, doing things that I can no longer recall. I think, possibly, that I even flew, soared, at one point.

Then, there was one part where I looked up at the sky – in daytime – and saw thousands of stars glittering like diamonds. There was no blue sky, in fact there may well have been cloud, but the sky was breathtakingly stunning with the most scintillating display imaginable. Whatever it all means, it left me feeling uplifted.

This makes me cry (in a good way)

Spooks

Anyone here watch Spooks? It's the BBC drama based on MI5. And it is absolutely fabulous. It manages to be topical to a degree that makes me wonder when on earth they make the show – do they add scenes or dialogue in at the last minute?! It's slick and sharp, set in London, and is unfailingly gripping.

I watched the new episode that was aired on BBC3 last night and, without giving anything away, was sat there in silence as my heart thudded, skin grew clammy and my stomach swam. Sounds like flu, I know, but this was the Spooks effect. The writers are not afraid to lose characters, and this is what makes the show all the more visceral.

Hermione Norris, who plays the ruthless but razor-sharp Ros Myers, was quoted in an interview complaining about the programme's lack of budget. She said it was 'obvious', but I don't think it is. So, the sets are not all that exciting but in a backdrop of one amazing 'set' – London – it's not so bad.

Mmmm, I love it.

Hope

Wow. I woke up suddenly after 4am and could feel the vibe. I knew. Obama had to be the winner.

When the alarm went off I switched the radio on and learned that Barack Obama had indeed won the election and is now president elect. I had a bit of a cry.

It's amazing. Exciting, promising and hopeful. This is a great moment.

Chocolate heaven

I am baking a chocolate cake using a French recipe that a friend was sent by the people who owned a cottage in which he holidayed recently. The first part of the method involved melting dark chocolate and butter. None of this milk chocolate or margarine lark, I'll have you know. The aroma of the butter softening and the bitter-ish chocolate turning to liquid was incredible.

I added the other ingredients and watched as the rich, possibly quite unhealthy blend glistened as I moved it around the bowl. The texture and colour was fabulous – it put me in mind of the character in Chocolat, which was a better book than it was a film. The sensuousness of the scenes and smells that I imagined in Chocolat was present in my kitchen. It still is.

The buzzer on the oven just went but the cake is not yet done. I will give it another five or ten minutes, to ensure it is solid enough to cut. If it isn't, it won't be a disaster. I licked the slim, sharp knife I poked into the hot cake and it is definitely not cooked. I know it was silly to lick the knife but if you'd have seen what was on that knife, you'd have run your tongue carefully along the blade, too.

A picture of said cake will follow once it is done. I'm just going to sit awhile, in the warmth, inhaling. Mmm.

Up, up and away

I cycled up a hill that I thought I'd never manage today. I was tired due to a poor night's sleep and had also underestimated the strength of my legs. The day was bright, cool and sunny, reviving me (as did a scrambled eggs, pancakes and tea breakfast).

Leaves turned golden, brown and red around me, and floated down as we cycled over their crunchiness for miles, for hours. Up, up, up we pedalled. And then down, freewheeling, only the possibility of people or animals emerging from trees and shrubbery, keeping our speed down. My eye, still irritated for some reason, watered and wept as the cool wind hit my face – just the one eye dribbling a tear down my cheek. I stopped periodically to wipe it away and then carried on pedalling.

Men and women carried cameras to capture the stunning display of autumn scenery, me not among them this time as I had forgotten my Canon. You could see Canary Wharf, the London Eye, the Gherkin, all so clearly. It was beautiful.

At home, we had cups of tea and teacakes, then went to my local pub with family and friends and came second in the quiz. What a delicious day.

Bliss

That feeling, when you are tired, so tired that you simply cannot keep your eyes open, can be unbearable (if you are at work when it strikes), or beautiful (if you have a day off or it is the weekend and there are no places to be, no calls to be made, no things to be cleaned).

A year ago, I would not have been allowed to nap, as I was in the throes of a sleep programme to reset my body clock so I could sleep. But now? Now, just occasionally, I let myself slide into sleep when I feel the uncontrollable slow of my heartbeat, the cooling of my skin and the gathering sluggishness of my thoughts. Now, I can let go and just sleep, just for a while, just until the drug of exhaustion wears away. And if the sun is shining on my tired limbs as I drift off, I am lost in splendid relief, as I melt into a warm, subconscious world.

Hovis triumph

The new Hovis TV advert is superb. S and I watched it in unexpected silence and after it had finished said: "What a brilliant ad." And then, after a moment of silence, we confessed that we both felt tearful (in a good way, filled with nostalgia for times that we had never even lived in being in our mid to late 30s).

I have just found a clip of the advert – it was aired this evening (with Coronation Street made shorter for the first time, to accommodate its length). It charts the Hovis Boy, the one we all know so well, going through streets of more than a century ago and track him running through the 20s, 30s, 40s... and on and on through evocative moments. You see Suffragetes, the Blitz, the miners' strikes, 1966 (football of course), the Millennium and on it goes until the boy runs into his warm 2008 kitchen with a loaf of bread. I felt choked watching it.

Absolutely fabulous work, ad folk. You did well. I think it is one of my favourite adverts of all time – and I have seen it but once.

Fight Club

I love it. I love it. I do...

I sparred for the first time in ages tonight (following a cracked rib and knee problems). I haven't worn my fighting gloves (well, mitts) since January, so this was a big deal for me. Erm, I was a bit scared when I started but instructor N told the first man I was paired up with to back off a bit as he was going for it a bit too harshly (and he has plenty of experience, compared to me). I must admit, I'd have come off pretty badly without this intervention. The second chap was more restrained and we had a great session. I need to be far more 'solid', I know. And, of course, my technique needs plenty of work. But it was bloody brilliant. The amount of energy you expend is amazing, and you feel as high as a kite afterwards.

This was catharsis at its best, believe me.

Scones and tea?

For scone fans, this is the recipe I used, courtesy of the BBC Food website (see below). Excuse gratuitous repeat of close up of scones with butter and jam. I had no clotted cream, unfortunately, but they were still tasty.

Ingredients
225g/8oz self raising flour
pinch of salt
55g/2oz butter
25g/1oz caster sugar
150ml/5fl oz milk

Method
1. Heat the oven to 220C/425F/Gas 7. Lightly grease a baking sheet.
2. Mix together the flour and salt and rub in the butter.
3. Stir in the sugar and then the milk to get a soft dough.
4. Turn on to a floured work surface and knead very lightly. Pat out to a round 2cm/¾in thick. Use a 5cm/2in cutter to stamp out rounds and place on a baking sheet. Lightly knead together the rest of the dough and stamp out more scones to use it all up.
5. Brush the tops of the scones with a little milk. Bake for 12-15 minutes until well risen and golden.
6. Cool on a wire rack and serve with butter and good jam and maybe some clotted cream.

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.

The State of Me

I've read Nasim Marie Jafry's blog for the last 18 months. She's funny, clever, observant, wry, down to earth, and I've always thought that if I met her over a coffee, we'd laugh about gardens, the weather, sleep, blogging/bloggers, mice and cooker hoods. I've tried to remember how I came upon NMJ's blog, and why I instantly added it to my bookmarks. There was no big reason (the name of her blog made me scrunch my brow). She simply had a voice that I wanted to listen to, having read a few entries.

It was therefore no great surprise to me that I greatly enjoyed NMJ's book The State of Me, which I finished over the weekend. I read it fairly slowly, as I do when reading books that are penned mainly in the first person. When well-written, I savour such works. It feels to me as though someone I know is talking to me, telling me things, confiding.

The State of Me is about a young woman, Helen Fleet, who is flawed, funny and feisty. Nasim takes us from Helen's fireworks of adolescent-on-the-cusp to her fading fast and burning out as illness takes hold of her and sits her firmly down – for the best part of a decade, at least. The sense of Helen's isolation and inwardness is made clearly apparent in the way the story is told. It made me feel sad and guilty for not knowing what this thing called ME/CFS/Yuppie flu (ugh) really is, and how devastating its effects are. I'd heard of it, of course, but I didn't really get it until now. It was abstract, a bit strange, hard to grasp... (but in retrospect I blame the doubters who communicated – or miscommunicated – this confusion to the likes of me when it first came to light...).

Having said that, The State of Me does not set out to be a novel equivalent of a documentary. Yes, Nasim enlightens the reader, if the reader chooses to listen. But the essence is a damn good story – there's the undulating relationship between Helen and Ivan that comes and goes, comes and goes... The constancy of Helen's mother, stepfather and uncle, and one friend, Jana, root her and give her life. Even if she is not living to the full physically, Helen has the full repertoire of emotions... Helen's love, Ivan, is drawn particularly well. I liked him immensely and though at times he did not behave impeccably, you could understand why, though you hated some of his deeds for what they did to the protagonist.

Nasim possesses the arts of understatement and careful observation that, on several occasions, disarmed me. I loved that some of her references seemed as though they were aimed specifically at me. That surely is the writer's ultimate aim – to be able to connect through the pages of a book using certain words that are so well-chosen that they spark the synapses like Christmas tree lights?

My feeling as I put The State of Me back on to my book shelf, was that this novel is a highly impressive, enjoyable debut and, I hope, the precursor to many more books by NMJ...

But I understand also that TSoM was written by a woman battling ME. That itself is a feat beyond the as-if-that-were-not-enough feat of having a book successfully published. I commend NMJ for her remarkable achievements, wish her extremely rude health and hope to one day toast her in person in an Edinburgh café when ME, for my blog friend(s) and all who have suffered ME (and its allied misunderstandings and unnecessary battles), is just a memory.

Fate... up against your will...

In starlit nights I saw you
So cruelly you kissed me
Your lips a magic world
Your sky all hung with jewels



Beautiful...

Praise be

One year and four months into my kung fu career, I've earned some praise.

N said I looked as though I was, for the first time, actually hitting the pad. He said he thought I had something going on in my eyes for once. It's true. I felt it. It was deeply satisfying. He said 'good' and 'that's it'. And I felt, for a while, as though I was in the zone. N doesn't praise often, and when he does, it means a lot, makes the initial tears and frustration worthwhile.

I was annoyed at a variety of things at the time (which helps) but managed to transfer the emotion from my head to my muscles. It's not easy. But it can be done. There are certain things in my life that anger me so deeply that I have no words to express them. Maybe my body will show me the way.

----------------
Listening to: Portishead - Hunter

The Dark Knight wins

Absolutely fucking superb.

I expected to see an average film but was stunned by this one, which managed to reel me in for more than two hours. Most played their parts beautifully. It was exhilarating and somehow not over the top. It was dark, psychological and quite unexpected. I'm glad I went in with a neutral head on. I can't believe it was a 12-certificate, though.

And Heath Ledger deserves the plaudits. He does. For one so young, he digs deep – goodness knows what he might have become. The hospital scenes reminded me of Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Ledger is terrifying on screen. You can see why he went a bit mad – he was method acting the part of The Joker and lost the ability to sleep along the way, apparently. His ex, Michelle Williams, said he had had trouble sleeping for as long as she'd known him: "His mind was turning, turning, turning, always turning." And on the set of his last film, he was saying: "Dammit – I can't sleep", while taking pills to help him. It's heartbreaking.

But – The Dark Knight – what an incredible swansong.