I HAD a sore throat for the past couple of weeks which I thought I had gotten the better of only to have it rear its ugly head this week. Being sick always makes me miss my mother that bit more. True, at 27, I am more than capable of downing some panadol and taking to my bed without her help, but it's not the same. My mam's cure-all-ails concoction of honey, cloves, lemon and hot water, her endless hot water bottles and maternal sympathy I have only come to appreciate now, when I live another country away from her and thus have to fill my own hot water bottle and God knows where I'm meant to find cloves?
I'm always surprised at the memories of my mum when I was younger that pop into my head and I realise there is probably a national archive of childhood memories stored in there that my brain will choose a selection from for my own private screening every now and then as I grow older.
Last week, for example, was Pancake Tuesday and as I was talking to a friend about it, I suddenly had this really strong memory of my dad coming home from work and my mam at the cooker churning out pancakes like some sort of incredible human batter-flipping machine. My brother and I sitting at the kitchen table, which was filled with a whole load of pancake fillings - ice cream, sugar, lemon, bananas, cream, etc - trying in vain to convince ourselves we had room for just one more even though we had already inhaled our own weight in pancakes at that point. My dad sat down with us and mam served him up his and then eventually she joined us and had one herself. Very domesticated and old-fashioned maybe now, but a comforting memory nonetheless, especially since my Pancake Tuesdays since I left home have consisted of me patheticallly trying to keep the tradition alive by coming home after work and consuming a few microwavable ones with some lemon from that plastic Jif thing. Not exactly Betty Crocker but it's the thought that counts. Although, if you tasted those micro pancakes, you'd probably tell me to stop thinking so much.
Lent's always been a funny one too. I always go off sweets, cakes, chocolate and crisps, every year since I was small, although now I must admit it tends to coincide more with my need to diet for the oncoming swimsuit pagent that is the summer than any real sense of religious obligation, but let's just call it a happy coincidence that the two happen to occur at the same time. It's been a week and a half and I always forget how NOT eating junk food is actually quite do-able. I have my rare moments of weakness such as when I open the fridge and see my housemate's Cadbury chocolate trifle (I love them) sitting innocently on her shelf, and I feel a little tug of loss at the knowledge that I cannot go there right now. But that's where the Lent thing kicks in over a simple diet no-no, for that chocolate trifle represents much more than just an extra pound on my hips, it's also a character-building personal test of self-restraint. Shutting the fridge door and walking away will make me, not just a slimmer person, but a better person. No pain, no gain and all that jazz.
Last Saturday, I had a friend to stay and so the Scooby gang got together and we all went out to this new restaurant, an all-you-can-eat paradise for just £16.99. The venue has 1,000 seats and you have to book a week in advance if you want to go. I've got to say though, in theory it was a fantastic idea but in practice, not so much. The place itself was like a world school cafeteria, foods from every country represented and queues of people with trays filing endlessly around the various parts. Three plates of food later, uncomfortable was not the word. It was excessive, greedy, anti-social, I had barely talked to the others in between battling it out at the Chinese section for a third helping of sweet and sour chicken before staring some other girl out over the last samosa in India. I had at least six different countries' specialities nesting in my belly and I did not feel well AT ALL. I looked at the others and knew they felt the same, even Himself was avoiding the dessert section and THAT is serious, let me tell you. And, not to be a bit preachy or hypocritical, or maybe that's exactly what I mean to be, but I felt uncomfortable in this food free for all when there are people out there who are barely surviving, let alone pigging out down Harbourside way. It felt wrong. That nice, full feeling you get after a quality meal out, with three distinct courses, fine wine and good conversation was definately MIA. I felt like my body was a big rubbish bin the bin men had forgotten to service. We called it a night shortly after and myself and Himself rolled ourselves home. We chalked it down to experience but made a pact not to go there again anytime soon. It was a crime against food, seriously.
Even now, a few days later, my stomach still gurgles in protest at what I put it through.
As for me and my sick bed, I pop some more panadol and a strepsil, feel a wave of self-pity and martyrdom wash over me as I cough weakly to no one in particular and then reach for my phone. It's times like these that a girl needs her mother you know!
Wednesday 29 February 2012
Thursday 16 February 2012
Commute stole my style
TODAY I was told some wonderful news. It wasn't that I had won the lotto or that I had got a promotion, no, no, it was even better than that. I was told that there was a state-of-the-art bike storage in the basement of my work offices. Well, in my lame-ass world right now where my bike has become one of my most valuable possessions (when did this happen?), it was news that filled me with much happiness.
Let me explain before you think that I've lost the plot completely. Having been transferred at Christmas to an office 50 miles away from where I live, I came face to face with what we call 'the commute'. At first, it involved a 30-minute walk to the train station, a 40-minute train ride, and another 20-minute walk to the office... and then all over again for the trip home in the evening. After doing this for the first week, I was in despair to be honest. No amount of positivity was going to overcome the feeling of hopelessness and exhaustion I had over the whole thing, the mini cheerleaders that had been pom-pomming away in my head, trying in vain to keep my spirits up, changed into their tracksuits and hit the road once it became obvious I was a lost cause. The endless walking and waiting around and 'daylight robbery' at the ticket counters was making me think I could not make this work.
So Himself suggested we get a 'fold-up bike'. It would be perfect for the commute and it would slash my journey by a full half hour. I agreed to give it a go as a last resort, at least I know I had tried my best to make it work then. A week later, I was the slightly terrified owner of a blue machine that at first, seemed to have the joints of an 82-year-old man as I attempted to learn how to fold the bloody thing up. It would not budge for me but seemed to move smoothly for Himself, which leads me to think that old 'Bluebell' is an 82-year-old woman, not man. As Himself deftly tucked the pedals in to the neatly folded bike - after the 50th fold-up demo that night mind - I believed I could almost see her smirking at me while Himself patted her saddle, overjoyed he had managed to figure it out so quickly, the two of them bonding instantly over their mutual distain for my folding skills.
Well, I did figure her out since (PMS - fold Pedals, then Middle, then Saddle - how ironic!) and after having spent some time together over the past month, I can say Bluebell has become a real lifesaver and made the commute bearable, if not almost pleasant on a sunny morning. I however, have turned into a seasoned commuter, but not the smart, suit-clad professional you see on the train with a Starbucks in one hand and an iPad in the other. I wish. No, due to the extent of travel on my daily commute, I am the girl with the bird's nest hair wearing the sneakers and ski coat carrying a fold-up bike that weighs twice my weight and lugging a Fitness First backpack I had gotten for free once after a gym taster session. Gone is the nice hair and feminine dresses of my non-commute days. There is no time or place for flowery dresses when I am pedalling furiously to the station and folding up my bike in the space of 50 seconds. One must dress accordingly to one's circumstances.
A few weeks ago I dropped my bike on the ground outside my office after cycling in the pouring rain and nipped into the ladies for the 2 minutes I had before my shift began. I stood next to a girl in the bathroom with straight, glossy hair wearing a red H&M dress that I recognise from my own pre-commute wardrobe who was applying her lipstick in the mirror. I looked at myself in the mirror next to her, sighing at the red-cheeked, ski-coat wearing, drowned rat that was looking back at me, then pulled out my deodrant, gave a quick spray in the direction of my armpits like some sort of frazzled ape that had wandered into someone else's cave, and left the other girl to it.
I am now one of those environmentally friendly commuters, riding a bike and taking public transport, though this has happened unintentionally. I have come to respect Bluebell since I figured out how to fold her and apart from a few minor incidents, not least of all the massive black and purple bruise I have on my leg after she slammed her handlebar into me (beatch), we work together quite well. And the news that I can now store her downstairs instead of lugging her across the office floor on a daily basis while my co-workers look on sympathetically at my plight, is a real bonus. It means I get to take the lift to our floor bike-less and maybe have an extra few minutes to shed my efficient commuter/cyclist persona and spray some Chanel, not Sure, in the bathroom for a change.
It's the little victories that count you know.
Let me explain before you think that I've lost the plot completely. Having been transferred at Christmas to an office 50 miles away from where I live, I came face to face with what we call 'the commute'. At first, it involved a 30-minute walk to the train station, a 40-minute train ride, and another 20-minute walk to the office... and then all over again for the trip home in the evening. After doing this for the first week, I was in despair to be honest. No amount of positivity was going to overcome the feeling of hopelessness and exhaustion I had over the whole thing, the mini cheerleaders that had been pom-pomming away in my head, trying in vain to keep my spirits up, changed into their tracksuits and hit the road once it became obvious I was a lost cause. The endless walking and waiting around and 'daylight robbery' at the ticket counters was making me think I could not make this work.
So Himself suggested we get a 'fold-up bike'. It would be perfect for the commute and it would slash my journey by a full half hour. I agreed to give it a go as a last resort, at least I know I had tried my best to make it work then. A week later, I was the slightly terrified owner of a blue machine that at first, seemed to have the joints of an 82-year-old man as I attempted to learn how to fold the bloody thing up. It would not budge for me but seemed to move smoothly for Himself, which leads me to think that old 'Bluebell' is an 82-year-old woman, not man. As Himself deftly tucked the pedals in to the neatly folded bike - after the 50th fold-up demo that night mind - I believed I could almost see her smirking at me while Himself patted her saddle, overjoyed he had managed to figure it out so quickly, the two of them bonding instantly over their mutual distain for my folding skills.
Well, I did figure her out since (PMS - fold Pedals, then Middle, then Saddle - how ironic!) and after having spent some time together over the past month, I can say Bluebell has become a real lifesaver and made the commute bearable, if not almost pleasant on a sunny morning. I however, have turned into a seasoned commuter, but not the smart, suit-clad professional you see on the train with a Starbucks in one hand and an iPad in the other. I wish. No, due to the extent of travel on my daily commute, I am the girl with the bird's nest hair wearing the sneakers and ski coat carrying a fold-up bike that weighs twice my weight and lugging a Fitness First backpack I had gotten for free once after a gym taster session. Gone is the nice hair and feminine dresses of my non-commute days. There is no time or place for flowery dresses when I am pedalling furiously to the station and folding up my bike in the space of 50 seconds. One must dress accordingly to one's circumstances.
A few weeks ago I dropped my bike on the ground outside my office after cycling in the pouring rain and nipped into the ladies for the 2 minutes I had before my shift began. I stood next to a girl in the bathroom with straight, glossy hair wearing a red H&M dress that I recognise from my own pre-commute wardrobe who was applying her lipstick in the mirror. I looked at myself in the mirror next to her, sighing at the red-cheeked, ski-coat wearing, drowned rat that was looking back at me, then pulled out my deodrant, gave a quick spray in the direction of my armpits like some sort of frazzled ape that had wandered into someone else's cave, and left the other girl to it.
I am now one of those environmentally friendly commuters, riding a bike and taking public transport, though this has happened unintentionally. I have come to respect Bluebell since I figured out how to fold her and apart from a few minor incidents, not least of all the massive black and purple bruise I have on my leg after she slammed her handlebar into me (beatch), we work together quite well. And the news that I can now store her downstairs instead of lugging her across the office floor on a daily basis while my co-workers look on sympathetically at my plight, is a real bonus. It means I get to take the lift to our floor bike-less and maybe have an extra few minutes to shed my efficient commuter/cyclist persona and spray some Chanel, not Sure, in the bathroom for a change.
It's the little victories that count you know.
Monday 6 February 2012
Death by food processor
MY most recent day off was a bit of a write-off to be honest. Granted, death by food processor is probably not the best way to leave this world. But I gave it my best shot last Friday. The machine I refer to was a Christmas present from Himself, something I had asked for in a bid to conquer the Jamie's 30-Minute Meals book I had received as a birthday gift earlier in the year, in which every recipe demands the presence of the almighty slicer and dicer.
Last Friday was the first chance I've had to crack it open and see what all the fuss was about, so I set my mind on Jamie's Potatoes Dauphinoise. After attaching the potato slicer blade, I dumped the other blades back in the box without their protective wrapping. MISTAKE. Realising I needed another device to get it going, I blindly stuck my hand back in the box to rummage for it, scanning Jamie's instructions all the while, and let out a yelp as one of the blades sliced through my finger! Blood, pain, panic and a lot of unladylike cursing followed suit.
Five minutes later, with half a roll of kitchen towel wrapped around the wound and expertly secured with an elastic band - I was out of plasters - I perservered and finished slicing the spuds. Things were starting to look up again as I added the cream and garlic, if you ignore the minor fact that I grated my own knuckle - cue another kitchen roll band aid - while tackling the parmesan cheese. The end was almost in sight but alas, Jamie was nowhere near to stop the entire contents of my salt grinder collapsing on top of my dish when the lid came off. I took a few moments to stare at the mess, breathing very slowly to avoid a complete meltdown, then slid the dish in the oven and hoped for a salt-less miracle.
What happened next I cannot explain nor will try to justify, only to say that I had a very trying day and I was not thinking straight. When Himself walked in and saw the food processor drying off on the dish drainer, he did a double take and then turned slowly around, saying incredulously: 'Please tell me you did not wash that whole food processor unit...' And the penny dropped. 'Eh, no?', I replied hopefully.'Grace, if you plugged that back in now, you'd kill yourself, you've ruined a perfectly good processor!'
Well, by the looks of things that food processor had been out to get me from the start, and I'm sorry, but I am not going to live in a perpetual state of terror every time I open Jamie's book and know I have to see it again. Best to part ways now and start afresh with another one, with no bad memories in tow. It hurt me and I hurt it, there was obviously no future for us.
Turned out it wasn't the best day for Himself either. His girlfriend had annihalated the Christmas present he had so carefully picked out and he was parched for the rest of the night after eating what basically turned out to be a dish of salt with some potatoes mixed in. Finely sliced potatoes in fairness, and with just a hint of knuckle in the cheese...
Last Friday was the first chance I've had to crack it open and see what all the fuss was about, so I set my mind on Jamie's Potatoes Dauphinoise. After attaching the potato slicer blade, I dumped the other blades back in the box without their protective wrapping. MISTAKE. Realising I needed another device to get it going, I blindly stuck my hand back in the box to rummage for it, scanning Jamie's instructions all the while, and let out a yelp as one of the blades sliced through my finger! Blood, pain, panic and a lot of unladylike cursing followed suit.
Five minutes later, with half a roll of kitchen towel wrapped around the wound and expertly secured with an elastic band - I was out of plasters - I perservered and finished slicing the spuds. Things were starting to look up again as I added the cream and garlic, if you ignore the minor fact that I grated my own knuckle - cue another kitchen roll band aid - while tackling the parmesan cheese. The end was almost in sight but alas, Jamie was nowhere near to stop the entire contents of my salt grinder collapsing on top of my dish when the lid came off. I took a few moments to stare at the mess, breathing very slowly to avoid a complete meltdown, then slid the dish in the oven and hoped for a salt-less miracle.
What happened next I cannot explain nor will try to justify, only to say that I had a very trying day and I was not thinking straight. When Himself walked in and saw the food processor drying off on the dish drainer, he did a double take and then turned slowly around, saying incredulously: 'Please tell me you did not wash that whole food processor unit...' And the penny dropped. 'Eh, no?', I replied hopefully.'Grace, if you plugged that back in now, you'd kill yourself, you've ruined a perfectly good processor!'
Well, by the looks of things that food processor had been out to get me from the start, and I'm sorry, but I am not going to live in a perpetual state of terror every time I open Jamie's book and know I have to see it again. Best to part ways now and start afresh with another one, with no bad memories in tow. It hurt me and I hurt it, there was obviously no future for us.
Turned out it wasn't the best day for Himself either. His girlfriend had annihalated the Christmas present he had so carefully picked out and he was parched for the rest of the night after eating what basically turned out to be a dish of salt with some potatoes mixed in. Finely sliced potatoes in fairness, and with just a hint of knuckle in the cheese...
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