Life.....

...is what happens when we are busy making other plans.

I am taking a short break.

See you in ten days time....

Please Feel Free To Ignore Me......

How narcissistic is it to announce your own birthday on your blog? I have absolutely no shame at all, as The Mother is fond of telling me.

Today I am 41, which feels so much older than 40.

And I don't have any cards, because nobody loves me the striking Posties have buggered it all up. (Not that I mind them striking. I adopted Spanish working practices a long time ago, and don't resent them for wanting a bit of what I have.)

But all is not lost, because I have received an email from the Kooky Hypnotherapist at work, telling me that she is going to give me a 'right good birthdaying' today.

I can't wait.

On Mothers and Daughters....(Part IV)

The Mother is very, very worried about me. The Mother wants me to give up blogging. Blogging, apparently, is very dangerous. Blogging is very dangerous because it involves t'internet, which is populated entirely by terrorists, paedophiles and pornographers.

This latest outburst of maternal concern was prompted by the fact that I told her I had met up with some bloggers. I met these terrorists, paedophiles and pornographers bloggers at Caroline's book launch in Manchester in June. I returned home unscathed. If any of the bloggers who attended Caroline's launch would like to identify which particular category they belong to, however, I would greatly appreciate it.

I also drove in my car today, which statistically puts me at significantly greater risk of harm than writing words which other people sometimes read. But driving does not involve the internet, so that's ok.

You Know You Are Getting Old When......

.....you don't mind getting stuck behind a slow moving farm vehicle on your way home because it makes it easier to bird watch and drive at the same time.

.....the fact that you can download a Hilary Clinton ring tone from the PM blog makes you want to write a stiff letter of complaint about dumbing down. To Radio 4 and The Times (and you don't even read The Times.)

....you think who is that nice man talking such common sense? before realising it is John Major, the man who famously ran away from the circus in order to become an accountant.

All of which happened to me yesterday. I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled....

You're Never Alone With A Head Full Of Relatives....

You might think after umpteen years of investigating my internal world, I would be adept at managing the ancestral voices in my head. You would be wrong.

Rooting through the fridge today, I came across a paper bag of slimy mushrooms, the unsuspecting victims of my current domestic lethargy. I was just about to put them in the compost pile when I heard my long-deceased grandma’s voice in my head.

“Eeh bah gum!” she said. “Dost tha ‘ave money to burn?” (She really, really did used to say “eeh bah gum!”, arms thrust under her ample bosom and mouth set firmly, waiting for a suitable reply.)

I don’t have money to burn, nor do I have a mint in the garage or a money tree in the garden.

Chop onion and garlic very finely and sweat in a generous knob of butter.

My son is very fond of home made mushroom soup. I took him to a friend’s for lunch when he was three. “Mushroom soup? “ she asked.

“Mmmm, my favourite” he replied.

She placed a bowl in front of him and he took a taste.

“Is this from a can?” he asked innocently, “because mummy makes her own, and I really only like it home-made.”

“You,” she responded to me, accusingly, “are making a rod for your own back.”

I fear she was right.

Sort through bag of mushrooms, composting the worst and peeling and finely chopping the rest. 20 minutes. Pour large glass of gin and tonic.

My grandma was born in 1912, leaving school at the age of 14 to work in the Yorkshire cotton mills. Life was hard, and food was not for throwing away, even if it was growing its own life forms. She married young and had children straight away, family planning in those days consisting mostly of crossing fingers – and legs – and slapping the husband hard when he came home from the pub. She had an amazing capacity for conjuring up a family meal out of bugger all, and although it was comprised mostly of flour, lard, water and those bits of the animal that the posh folk wouldn’t eat, I remember her as a wonderful cook. I developed a fondness for stodgy dumplings and neck end of lamb as a small child, although I would caffle at the sheeps’ brains, pigs’ trotters and tripe that she would serve up for my granddad.

Sweat mushrooms for as long as it takes to get rid of the slime. About another 20 minutes. Pour another large glass of gin and tonic.

The Mother has the same skill, and would produce daily meals for our family of seven from a bag of flour, a block of lard, a couple of bendy carrots and whatever the butcher was throwing out. The Mother retains her fondness for lard, and will buy some in especially when Sister #2 visits from Italy.

“I’ve bought you some lard!” she announces, the minute my sister arrives on her annual visit.

“Fabulous” responds Sister, “because Italian extra virgin olive oil really is so disappointing when you have been brought up on beef dripping.”

Stir in a suitable amount of flour, and cook it out for at least 3 minutes, stirring continuously.

The Sister leaves after a month, half a stone heavier and about to birth a 9lb meat and potato pie.

Add enough vegetable stock until desired consistency is achieved. Thicken slowly…remember just in time that under no circumstance must it boil. Approximately 3 minutes.

I have successfully abandoned my maternal line’s attachment to carbohydrates and cheap cuts of meat. I still can’t throw food away though.

Add some black pepper, a handful of finely chopped flat leaf parsley and a dash of single cream. Ready to serve.

So I appear to have spent the best part of an hour making a single bowl of mushroom soup. One, measly, single bowl of soup. Granted, I have simultaneously marinated a chicken in garlic, lemon, coriander and chilli and prepared some vegetables for roasting, but nonetheless the voices in my head have convinced me that an hour’s worth of soup-making is morally superior to composting a bag of slimy mushrooms.

If someone could persuade me that feeding my son slimy mushrooms is damaging to his health, I would be most grateful.