Can the English do hygge?

Once all the new year shenanigans are behind us, we will have the worst of the winter to look forward to. Time, I think, for a hefty dose of hygge and I’m sure you all know what that is. But just in case you don’t, I’ll tell you…

Hygge is a Scandinavian word which roughly equates to getting cozy. I haven’t looked into it in much detail, but I get a general idea of log fires, hot chocolate, hand knitted jumpers and the feeling that outside the wind is howling over a pristine snow scene.

This is a very appealing scenario. Sadly, though, here in southern England we can never be sure of snow scenes, pristine or otherwise. If we DO have snow it is usually in quantities that makes Scandinavians laugh but still causes chaos for commuters, quickly turning into slushy muck for walkers. It also gives us hours and hours of news programmes about travel chaos. Not very cosy.

You see, our weather just can’t make up its mind. One day we have a cold snap so you are ready for lashings of hot chocolate and get in a supply of logs, only to find that, before you can light the fire, it’s gone all mild and damp and the weather is sitting outside the window sulking. You put away the jumpers and go to bed under a summer weight duvet, only to wake in the night freezing cold because the sulky weather has decided to catch you out again and turned icy.

Another day it is dull, grey and depressing and will probably start drizzling relentlessly so that you wish it would just pour down in buckets and get it over with. Sometimes it DOES pour down for days, bringing floods and misery. Again, not very cosy.

As for chestnuts roasting on an open fire at Christmas, you can forget it. It is always mild over Christmas, so you are better off saving your chestnuts for January. Or probably February, just when you are looking for the first signs of spring and hoping the weather might cheer up a bit. But no, it will turn cold just in time to freeze the blossom off the trees, having tricked them into thinking spring has sprung.

When the weather is depressing you need to find a way to compensate for it indoors. I find a cup of tea and a good book helps, and there are plenty of biscuits left over from Christmas to get through (well, it would be wrong to waste them, wouldn’t it). But if anyone has any bright ideas about hygge, English style, I’d be glad to hear them.

Storage Envy

A few of my children live in Scandinavia. Their houses are all easy to clean, well-organised and very, very practical. I can stay with each or any of them for several days and not witness any housework going on, and yet - the houses never seem to get dirty. Well, not my  kind of dirty. This may because, to a man, they all take their shoes off when coming in from outside; a practice I have tried to instigate back in the UK, but have, on the whole, been met with a surprised expression of innocence, 'but they're not dirty'.

Our houses just aren't made the same. Our houses are much more difficult to clean. We don't have as many cupboards to store stuff in. And we don't usually have separate laundry rooms. None of my kids who live abroad have a washing machine in their kitchen. None.

And here we come to the whole point of this post. That photo at the top. Know what it is? Well, yes, shelves with storage containers wall to wall. But here's the thing: There is a special room in the basement of my son's house [a basement so vast, I may add, that it has its own log burner, sauna, washing machine room, drying room and three storage rooms - but I digress] and in this room he has constructed these shelves and lined them with containers to, and I quote,  'Finally going to sort out all the bedding etc'. End quote.

I have serious storage envy. I want a room lined wall to wall with shelves with containers on to sort my bedding. I love sorting. Then everything would be at my fingertips when an unexpected guest turns up.

You want a pillow, or would you prefer two? Certainly they are in this box. A nice fresh-unstained-new quilt would then be extracted from another box. Guest quilt covers would be just above - and oh yes - the pillow cases would be in the box right above the pillows. Obviously. Making up a guest bed would be sheer pleasure. ATM, I am not sure where the nice clean new quilts that I bought especially for guests are.  They could be in youngest daughters cupboards, but I think youngest son probably nicked one and it's on his bed. Ditto new pillows.

And my sheets and covers cupboard? It's in the children's bathroom so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that it is just a muddle, where people keep opening out folded sheets to see if they are singles or doubles. And they never are the ones that are wanted, and they all seem to be fitted sheets which are such a pain to re-fold that the kids usually just roll them in a ball and throw them back in.

So, don't come looking in my cupboards is all I can say. Not till I get a storage system like my son has. But I would probably have to move to Norway to aspire to that...

I’m just thinking, OK?

It’s this time of year when I get sent letters from charities asking for money for the homeless over Christmas. I’ve just dropped another couple in the bin [there was no free pen] and I have to confess to feeling ambiguous about the whole homeless thing.

I grew up in a secure middle-class white grammar school environment where I don’t think I ever saw anybody begging in the street, and if anyone was sleeping on a park bench it was obviously their fault and they should just go and get a job.

It wasn’t till I left home, oh ages later, that I saw a documentary about a poor guy whose wife left him, and long story short, he lost his home and because of that he couldn’t keep his job [nowhere to shower and keep really clean, nowhere to store his paperwork etc. etc.] so he ended up under a bridge with all his worldly possessions in a bag and no future and no hope. It was only then, I kid you not, that I started to realise what homelessness was all about.

So I started to look for people in doorways with sleeping bags and a dog, so I could give them some money and some kindness. And you know what? I couldn’t find any! Where were they all now I had some kindness and money to share? I wanted to do it face to face, avoiding the middle man of organisations – who apparently took most of our donations to pay staff and property and heating and advertising costs.

While I was looking several stories appeared in the papers revealing the ‘homeless’ who were scamming the public.  Apparently, the poor guy in the doorway wasn’t what he seemed. No, he had a comfortable house a few towns away and managed to earn more begging than he could get on benefits or holding down a regular job. He may even have a Mercedes….

Now what to do? I didn’t have that much money, and I would much rather spend it on my own kids and friends than on a potential scammer, especially one who may have a Mercedes. Then a saw a poor homeless guy in the town centre but I didn’t have any money on me. So I decided when I went home that I would go and buy him fish and chips because that way he couldn’t feather his nest with it if he was a scammer, and if he wasn’t, at least he would get a good meal inside him. But when I went back he was gone.

But I found another guy huddled in a doorway when I was out with my husband on a trip. No dog, and no sleeping bag, but even if he was a scammer he looked cold and miserable, so we bought him a hot coffee and a large slice of brownie. I was surprised how nervous I was when I offered it to him, but he said thank you and when we walked away and I looked over my shoulder at least he was drinking the coffee.

Just as I was getting the idea I could do this on a regular basis when I got home, what do I find in my town’s Facebook Group? A HUGE slanging match discussion about a homeless young man who is often seen in our town. Some people wanted to call an ambulance when they found him shaking ‘with cold’, other people who knew him said he was shaking because he was waiting for his next fix and please don’t give him any money because he would spend it on drugs. Give him food then, said other people who chimed in, while the first people had indeed called an ambulance and were waiting for it to come. We tried, said others, but he just refused rudely and said he wanted money. Then others mentioned that help had been called for the poor guy before and he had refused it with an ‘F off’ response, and so it went on and on….

I’m back to square one guys. What to do? At least I can keep a bit of loose change in my pocket to buy a Big Issue if I ever see one. They are supposed to be genuine, aren’t they?

Our last Christmas with Mr Gerald

This is a random picture of a snowman figure. It isn’t Mr Gerald, although it might look like him for all I know. You see, although we have never seen Mr Gerald, we seem to share the house with him. We know this is nonsense, by the way, but stick with me for a while…

Ever since we moved in here, which is now 14 years ago, there have been strange 
things happening...

Sometimes it was just a glimpse of someone or something passing a doorway, just caught out of the side of the eye. 

Sometimes it has been noises coming from upstairs. So you think it must be someone next door upstairs in their house. Then you remember – they don’t have an upstairs next door. 

Or maybe it’s the heating pipes or radiators – but in the summer? 

And on at least one occasion a dark figure seen outside in the garden on a winter night. 
Then there’s been the usual scenario of things mysteriously missing or moved to a different place.

How do we come to have a name for this presence? And how do we know it’s a Mr? Mr Gerald is just what a seven-year-old Debbie called him/it. I have no idea why, but the name has stuck.

I must say though, I have never felt at all creeped out by all this. Actually it’s been handy to have someone to blame when I can’t find my keys or whatever. A convenient Mr Nobody, as it were. The dog isn’t spooked by an alien presence or anything. We’ve got used to having Mr Gerald lurking in the background of life, and we joke about him. But I do hope he isn’t moving house with us in the new year.

So while Saggy is preparing for the Great Christmas Escape, I will be hiding behind the sofa planning a very scaled down last Christmas in the old house. I haven’t quite cancelled it altogether, but Mr Gerald will be the only guest.

Tips for when your parents don’t do as they are told…

Following what Moo was talking about last time – how you are always a child to your parents even when you are an adult; I can’t pass this topic by unless I put my oar in too. My mother says things like ‘I’ve got your favourite bikkies in’ or ‘what you need is a nice hot bath’ to me, a 60-year-old with a senior rail card.

And yet, at the same time you will find that you must take over the task of helping them organise their lives when they are past it need a bit more help, and you have to start issuing instructions back to them. There is this strange see-saw period when the balance of power veers from one side to the other, sometimes in the space of one visit.

After being offered my favourite bicky, I then glance down to find a box of Belgian chocs by the side of each chair. It’s a free country and my parents are consenting adults, so they can eat what they like without input from one of their ‘girlies’, but when they say things like – ‘my blood sugar was up last week, and I have no idea what I am doing wrong’ – I feel obligated to tell them why.

There is a protocol involved in correcting aged parents, and I have a few tips to offer middle-aged children like me who are placed in this position of responsibility.

1.       Never tell them they are in the wrong directly. You just have to accept the fact that however old you are, however many achievements and experiences and qualifications you have amassed since you left their direct care – you are still their kid. Which means, ultimately, that they know better than you do even when they don’t. Ah, yes, there are times when they ask your advice, but I get the feeling that it is because they want to make us feel valued and useful. Kids need all the encouragement their parents can give, and the habit is hard to break.

2.       Give them dietary advice with a pinch of salt. Well, maybe pass on the salt if it is refined table salt. But will they try the Celtic sea salt which retains 84% of the minerals that are lacking in the table salt? Nope. Or believe the recent research on wheat and gluten? Nope, and why? – because their parents ate it and were fine, is why. To be fair, if you are in your 80's and you couldn’t get to the shops easily and wasn’t able to use a computer to order home deliveries, then the whole diet thing would be really hard to get your head round, even when your daughter writes a week’s menu and a shopping list. It’s just too much hassle, and I do understand that guys, I really do.

3.       Give them lifestyle advice with your fingers crossed behind your back. And yet, one day they surprise you. The crafty old so and so’s make sure that they leave just enough time between your advice and their action, so it looks like it was their idea all along. Fair enough. They’ve probably forgotten you said anything anyway [it’s the statins…].

4.       Expect failure with cheerful resignation. Because, at the end of the day why should they listen to you? So, if any of my kids ever read this and want to wade into my life with good advice when I am 80 I think it is fair to say I will be probably retain the right to do my own thing anyway. So kids: all your advice will roll off my back when I enter my dotage and I will live how I please. But at least, I will understand how you feel. And you have my sympathy…

Rice pudding and teaspoons

...or the upside of having elderly parents.

I’ve been spending more time with my parents recently for one reason and another, and I can’t help thinking how lucky I am that they are still around. They enrich the whole family’s life in ways they probably don’t even imagine.

It’s a funny feeling when you are almost at pension age and you spend some time with your parents. Suddenly you are a child again. It doesn’t matter how many years you’ve been an independent adult, how many children you have reared, how many grandchildren you already have, how many exams you have passed or how much of the world you have seen. Parents never leave off being parents, and my parents are no exception.

So if Mum wants to give you petrol money when you’ve taken her to an appointment or something, you don’t refuse. I’ve tried it, but I get The Look. I feel as though I might get sent to my room.

Mum and Dad have always had a gift for seeing the funny side of things, and they have not lost it. Which is just as well, because as you get older there is much more scope for it. For example, due to certain confused online purchasing by Dad, we have been blessed with an overabundance of rice pudding and teaspoons  Well, we couldn’t leave them to munch their way through the quantities of pudding Dad ordered in error. Then there was the teaspoon incident. There are only so many teaspoons a household of two needs. For some reason Dad decided he was short of a teaspoon or two and unintentionally ordered about a million, only to open a drawer after they arrived to find he had plenty of teaspoons already.

Dad’s tendency to systematically label and number things like margarine tubs, eggs and milk bottles has been noted before. These things can’t be easily explained, although Dad has had a good go and we got a good laugh. And always ready to laugh at himself, he has told most of the family how he recently took Mum her breakfast in bed minus the egg which was supposed to be the main feature of the meal.

There’s something I’ve noticed about visiting Mums house. You always come away carrying more than you went in with. No, I don’t mean we’ve been systematically robbing her. I mean she gives you stuff. Even if it’s only old newspapers to wrap your rubbish in or light fires or something. It’s always been like this. I don’t know where she gets all the excess stuff from. I’m not counting Dad’s over-ordered things. Recently Mum has taken to accidentally buying way too much meat for their Sunday dinner. Rather than using it the next day or freezing it or something, I get a phone call on Monday to ask if I can use the best part of a lamb joint (I can!) or a couple of cooked chicken legs or whatever. I’m the lucky offspring who lives round the corner, so I get this quite often. I’m not complaining! She says its for the dog (yeah right) but he doesn’t see much of it. I don’t know that Mum deliberately buys too much in order to have some to feed her offspring with, but it’s the sort of thing she would be likely to do.

I know they won’t mind me mentioning this, but Mum and Dad keep us all entertained with their bickering. They are famous for it anyway, and have even been presented with a house name plaque ‘The Bickeridge’ by their grandchildren. This is proudly displayed outside their front door for all the world to see, so it’s no secret. Recently I was with them when Dad was due to be discharged from a brief hospital visit. Mum was going to help him dress, the curtains were pulled round the bed, so I went out to make a phone call and left them to it. Returning to the ward ten minutes later I got a bit confused and couldn’t remember which bed was Dad’s. But I needn’t have worried – I soon heard them bickering away behind the curtains.

And where would we be without Mum’s fascinating stories of her childhood and her laugh aloud tales of characters she has met? Yes, I count myself very lucky indeed to have these two still in my life. I just hope they realise how much they mean to all of us.

The Great Escape...

My husband and I are going abroad for Christmas.

Not to somewhere warm with sandy beaches, palm trees and coconuts. No, we are going to Norway where it will be colder than it is here, but hopefully with SNOW.

Remember singing ‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas’? Well, we are always dreaming. One year we had 20 minutes of snow in Somerset during the whole winter. What good is that?

In 1962 we had a cracker of a winter. We lived in Kent then [with no central heating till the 1970s BTW]. By gum we knew how to survive in cold weather, with frost on the inside of the window, huddled over a small electric fire in the middle of the bedroom trying to do homework. There was a fire in the front room but the hall was so cold all you could hear during the evening when people went in and out was ‘Shut the door!’.

Anyway, I digress. In Norway it is colder [outside not inside] but we are not going for the dip in temperature. Apart from seeing our grandchildren I am looking forward to experiencing a scenario that looks like Christmas. White lawns, gently falling soft snowflakes, the scrunchy sound as you are the first one to walk down the drive in the morning leaving your footprint behind on the previously unmarked swathes of pristine white...

This means that we leave some of our kids behind in the UK to sort Christmas dinner, presents, decorations etc themselves. They can do that. They are all big enough. I will just say that again – our kids can sort Christmas dinner – does that not sound good?

I know I will help out where I will be, I can lay the table, I can load the dishwasher and peel potatoes – but it’s a lot different to being responsible for everything. Most importantly, I won’t be responsible for organising the clearing up after every meal, for checking the table has been wiped properly, making sure that stuff which needs to be defrosted has been taken out of the freezer and that all the leftover meat has been put in the fridge.


The housewives among us may understand why I am referring to this as The Great Escape.

Who would have thought it...

This is my dog Archie trying to escape having his harness put on prior to going for a walk. We go through this fiasco every time we take him out. I mean, he wants to go out but makes us catch him first. I have no idea why.

Whatever made us get a dog? I’d never really thought of myself as a ‘dog person’ if you know what I mean. Not too fond of dog-slobber on my clothes, dog poo in the garden and hair all over the carpets. I was fond of the dog we’d had when the children were young. William was such a good natured, obedient, friendly character with a weakness for rooting in rubbish bins and getting on the sofa when he thought nobody would catch him. He spent his last few months living with my son Tom, who needed a dog and loved him to bits. I was sad when he died, especially when I came home from work and found Tom burying him in my garden. I felt privileged to have him lying beneath my lawn, but I wasn’t quite as heartbroken as I suspect I would be were our little Archie to pass on.

So, why did I sign up for all that slobber, poo and hair again? Not sure I can explain really. But,

a)     he doesn’t slobber

b)     he rarely poos in the garden

c)     he doesn’t shed his hair

So, with my main objections to dogs taken care of, there are almost no reasons NOT to have one. Call it mid-life madness. Or empty nest syndrome.... Whatever.

Besides, I needed something to make me get more exercise – no excuses!

Every morning I see a gentleman of military aspect marching his dog down to the beach. A well behaved, obedient dog with an impressive physique and not a spare ounce of flesh on him. I can only imagine the training that guy put his dog through and the regimented life he must lead. He seems happy enough though, so maybe it suits him. Dogs are supposed to be like their owners (or is it the other way round?) That’s probably why I have a small, scruffy, stubborn little dog. But SO adorable!

The strong bonds between humans and their dogs and/or cats can’t be denied. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea perhaps, but those of us who do cherish a furry friend get a lot of happiness from them. And when they pass away, as they do far too soon, we mourn as for a lost family member. It’s common to have to have time off work when we lose a pet. Which reminds me of a staff memo which was sent round to my colleagues a few years ago. It included the line 

‘...and thanks go to Carol whose cat died and carried on working anyway’. 

After falling off my chair laughing I sobered up and felt mean because I could imagine what poor Carol was suffering.

Since the day Archie arrived, a cute bundle of puppy sweetness, he has brought something special into our lives. His face is so comical it makes you want to laugh just to look at him. 

There are times when I marvel at his intelligence, and others when I shake my head at his idiocy. He has been part of my life for two and a half years now, and I have no regrets at all.

Butter wouldn't melt...

  MOVING ON

                                        

Apparently, every year in the UK one in nine people move house. I don’t know if that’s one in nine households on the move or one in nine individuals. Either way, there’s a lot more of it going on than I realised.

I definitely have mixed feelings about the house moving experience. On one hand it’s exciting and fun looking for a new home. On the other hand it is stressful and inconvenient, particularly having strangers poking around your home.

 Ok, so I don’t mind poking around theirs, but that’s different…really it is. I imagine that other people always live in a state of readiness for the critical scrutiny of strangers at a moment’s notice. But I go through agonies of inadequacy before I leave my private space, leaving it wide open to the [probable] criticism of viewers. In my more rational moments I know that nobody really lives in a show home, but that doesn’t stop me feeling that they do. But anyway, why should I care for the opinion of strangers?

Because I want to sell my house, that’s why.

The course of true homebuying never did run smooth. When our whole recent sale and purchase collapsed like a house of cards, I knew it had been too good to be true. Things had been far too simple. So in a way we weren’t surprised or even particularly fazed. It just seemed like a nuisance to have to go through all the nosey stranger stuff again.

 But, hey! A week on and we’re sold again. Also we have found a cosy bungalow which I am trying very hard not to get emotionally involved with. Nothing is definite before the signatures are dry on the contracts, and not always then.

Meanwhile I must get on with sorting out 14 years’ worth of clutter and getting rid of excess furniture and stuff. I mean,  do I really need three sets of single bedding when we only have double beds? And fingers crossed one of those doubles will fit into our new second bedroom…

Its no wonder that moving house is listed on the stress scale*, although it only scores 20/100 where death of a spouse scores 100 and Christmas scores 12. For some reason its not so stressful as ‘revision of personal habits’, whatever THAT means. I beg to differ on that one.

Anyway, must go and get on with list writing, decluttering and nail biting…

*Holmes and Rahe 1967

BEST FOOT FORWARD!

I’d like to talk about exercise, because I’d much rather talk about it than do it. I’d also like to talk about forming good exercise habits, but all I can tell you about that is what you probably know already.

1. Bad habits form themselves quite easily with no help from me.

2. Good habits, however, take time, effort and repetition to establish. That’s the hard bit.

Sadly though, the writing is on the wall…

I have a choice. If I just keep on doing the same things and eating the same things that I have always done in the past, I will be in trouble not far down the line. If I make certain changes, then I stand a good chance of staying mobile.

Already action is called for, so I’ve made a start. The first good habit I’ve managed to establish is a walk first thing every day. Actually I can’t claim iron will power, as I do it because I have a dog. He HAS to go for walks, whether I feel like it or not. And because I’ve been doing it for over two years, it’s become a habit, and one that I enjoy now. If for some reason I can’t do that early morning walk I really miss it.

But walking isn’t enough apparently.

Someone had a bright idea. It was the physiotherapist when we were discussing my back problems and fibromyalgia. Pilates, he said, would be the very thing. As he had ruled out running or jumping in any way, and I already walk every day, apparently the best thing to do is Pilates.

‘Me! Pilates! You must be joking’, I said. ‘But I’ve been doing my exercises every day.’

Well, most days…

Well, for the last three days…

But you can’t fool a physio. I’m sure they’re trained to look right through your soul and winkle out every last little excuse and half-truth. And they have a heart of stone when it comes to excuses. 

‘Can’t I do tai chi? That’s more me.’

‘No, you must go to the sports centre and book up some classes’, says he. I can tell from the flinty look in his eye that he knows I would rather eat coal than walk into a sports centre or go into an exercise class. The thought of a room full of bendy super women with straight backs and washboard stomachs was scary. I imagined they would all be like Barbie dolls and me a Cabbage Patch interloper.

As it turned out, I was right. But they were very nice to me, I have to say. This bunch of whippet-like females (and one brave guy) were a really good advert for Pilates. And they all seemed to know each other of course.

The first thing I did was to incorrectly identify the instructor and try to tell her about myself. Turned out she hadn’t arrived yet, although the efficient looking lady I spoke to was very helpful and told me where the mats were. Shortly afterwards the instructor burst through the doors, all energy and healthiness.

I managed to get her to stand still long enough to explain why I was there and she said just to do what I could manage. This wasn’t really a beginners class but that was ok.

An hour later I staggered out of the class feeling battered but virtuous. I had stuck it out! The instructor told me I hadn’t done too badly but I’d better stick to my physio exercises for a bit.

I rang my youngest daughter who is at uni training to be a physiotherapist. She was surprised but impressed that I’d actually done it (how well she knows me!).

‘How was it?’ She asked

‘It nearly killed me’ I answered

‘Good’ she said.

Something tells me that girl will make an excellent physio.

I haven’t given up though. I wouldn’t dare! I have an appointment with the flinty-eyed physio on Monday. I will be able to look into his laser eyes and honestly tell him I went to that class AND I do my exercises every day. 

Maybe I should try yoga...

Changing my diet one piece of toast and marmalade at a time…

I had a patient yesterday who desperately wanted to lose weight. As I gave her dietary and lifestyle advice along with the medicine that I had prescribed for her, I had to take stock of my own food intake and daily routine.

Would I be able to follow the advice I had just given her?

It’s so easy to tell other people what they should be doing [especially if it’s your job]. But as I said last week, I am at least 2 stones over weight and what am I doing about it?

I will tell you…

1.       I changed my breakfast routine. This has been hard but I am sticking to it. I don’t have toast and marmalade any more. I love toast and marmalade. Instead I now fry chopped onions, sliced courgettes and mushrooms in coconut oil or olive oil with sea salt and cracked black pepper, then shove in an egg. Sometimes I slice up kale or chard from the garden and add that.

OK, so I know what you are thinking. That sounds gross, is what you are thinking, and if you are slim you have the luxury of choice. But at some point, those of us who are overweight have to change what we eat and what we do or we will stay overweight. And one of the things I chose to change was the amount of bread that I used to eat – especially bread made with modern wheat [it contains amylopectin A, which raises blood sugar very high]. I am going to experiment with sourdough made with spelt flour [which doesn’t contain the amylopectin A] and introduce a slice of that every now and then. One of my sons-in-law makes excellent sourdough so it can’t be that hard to do at home…

And, by the way, don’t worry about the odd bit of coconut oil. Fat isn’t the problem with weight gain, but I am not going to argue about it now with the low-fat diet zealots – I just can’t be bothered...

2.       I have [mostly] replaced potatoes with pumpkin, squash or swede. This again is hard, but ditto to what I said above. A swede cooked well with plenty of black pepper, sea salt and some butter is OK. I allow myself roast potatoes when I visit other people if they have made them as I am not going to ruin the effort other people have gone to just because I want to lose weight. I just make sure I am more careful the next day. And if someone buys me chocolate, I don’t throw my hands up in horror and refuse it. I graciously accept and have some, then share the rest out, instead of pigging out on it all by myself as I would probably prefer to do.

3.       I walk more. I aim to walk every day. I try to walk before I eat so I use up fat stores and not just the calories I have just taken in. I have a brisk 20-30 minute walk around the docks, then back home for breakfast [or lunch]. If the weather is foul I will exercise indoors instead of walking. This takes the shape of short bursts of interval training. 30 seconds of running up and down the stairs, 60 seconds rest, then 30 seconds more exercise – I do that for 6 cycles at that’s it – exercise done for the day.

4.       I avoid red meat usually, and go for chicken or fish. I also use a lot more pulses and legumes. In fact, I soak black-eye beans or aduki beans, then cook them up and store them [rinsed] in the fridge to keep hunger attacks at bay. You know - the hunger pangs when you come in from town ravenous and just want a piece of toast and marmalade with a cup of tea. Instead [if I can hold my nerve] I put the kettle on and heat up some coconut oil, shove in some mushrooms and the cooked pulses I have in the fridge. I season them well, as they can be bland, but they stop me being hungry…

5.       Lunch is usually warmed up dinner left over from the night before, or I sometimes have fruit and organic full fat yogurt [but I avoid bananas], or I open a tin of mackerel or spread an avocado on Finn crisp crackers. I do not advise cream crackers and cheese from the point of view of; when do you stop? I could eat a whole packet…

6.       I have managed to train myself to not eat biscuits when I have a cup of tea. This has been one of the hardest habits to break, and is easier when the children aren’t at home. My kids buy stuff like ginger nuts, which is just plain cruel.

7.       Supper used to be a couple of slices of toast and marmalade. Now it isn’t. I try not to eat at all after dinner. And sometimes I succeed. If I am really hungry I try to manage on a handful of almonds or walnuts.

So – I will spare you a ‘before’ photo. But I may take an ‘after’ photo in 6 months’ time. But, yes, it’s going well. Thanks for asking….

WHAT TO EAT?

I have just bought and eaten a whole Twirl when taking my granddaughter to school. I had to bribe her, you see, and once in the shop by the chocolate counter I sort of found myself with the Twirl in my hand [I love Twirls] and was through the checkout and in the car park before you could say Cadbury’s.

But guys! I have a clear idea of what I should be eating, and why. I understand the dangers of consistently eating processed, refined foods. I am aware of how much better/thinner/lively I would be if I ate more fresh, raw vegetables. What I am trying to say is that the Twirl is not an isolated incident.

Old habits die hard, and I was brought up on the same diet that most people had in the 60’s and 70’s. It included a lot of toast, beefburgers, sausages and Vesta Curries. [I’m not complaining Mum, I enjoyed it at the time.] Quinoa hadn’t been invented and seeds were things you sowed in the allotment during the spring, not things that the nutritionally aware sprinkled on their porridge.

But here’s the thing; nearly all of my family have diabetes now AND THE WRITING IS ON THE WALL for me. I am a good 2 stones overweight and although I am losing a steady 1lb a week, which is healthy, I sneak a Twirl and a packet of ginger nuts for a reward and I put it back on again.

I was inspired recently by a woman in Norway. She paid a GP a lot of money for a diet plan that was exactly the same as the one in my head that I think I am on. Except she was sticking to it. I think she was sticking to it because she paid so much money for it and the one in my head costs me nothing.

So, I am making an announcement. The next time it is my turn and not Moo’s to post on here is 29^th – exactly a week away. It is one day before I go to Portugal on holiday [which is another thing but hey] – and I will honest-to-goodness post here if I managed to lose any weight by getting the meal plan out of my head and onto my plate and by pretending that I have paid shed loads of money for it.

Do you think I can do it?

LETS GET ON WITH IT...

Well, summer is over and autumn is just about upon us again.

This is the grown-up version of ‘What I Did in the Holidays’, an essay I always dreaded at school because we used to do such weird things in our family, e.g. as mentioned in a previous blog, Grave-spotting and Uncle Hunting. We never went away on holiday, except rarely and only to visit family. There were a few day trips to the coast, but these were very rare indeed, as our parents weren’t too keen on the chaos at the beach. Or the journey with squabbling kids in the back, though I seem to remember they were as bad as us for bickering, maybe worse. We could hardly get a mile down the road before we were all ready to give up the trip and go home.

It may seem strange but we enjoyed our summer holidays immensely despite the lack of trips abroad or days out. People didn’t tend to do so much of that sort of thing back then. We were left much more to our own devices, and this suited us fine.
It wasn’t easy, when tackling the inevitable What I Did  essay on returning to school, to make our holidays sound interesting, or entirely believable. At least, not to normal people like teachers and other kids. 

But at least when you are a child, you get some time off. Once you are an adult and have your own family, ‘holidays’ are never the same again. They are just everyday life on steroids. When the kids have all (just about) left home you’d think things would be a lot quieter. And so they are I guess, but YOU are also a lot older. So it still feels like chaos. 
I guess this is why pensioners spend their time cruising round the world and the rest of us spend our time dreaming of enough pension to do the same one day.

So, what did I do all summer?

Well, I’ve had some lovely moments... Visits from grandchildren, evenings eating ice creams on the beach and watching the sun go down, spending some time with my parents, starting an online photography course… The best thing all summer was the birth of another granddaughter. 

Oh, and we sold the house and are about to buy another. Anyone who has been through house sale and purchase will understand what’s involved in THAT.

While Saggy has been gadding about Norway and sorting out her Herbal School stuff back home, I’ve been working hard at my photography these last few months. To be honest, you can’t call it work. I really love it and I’m out most days with my camera and the dog. It’s not so easy getting my head round the technical stuff though. 

How I will miss those beautiful swans at the bottom of my garden when we move!

So it’s been very busy this summer.

I seem to have spent all my adult life waiting for a time when Things Get Back to Normal, but have to wonder if such a state of what I imagine to be Normal really exists! And just think – countdown to Christmas will begin before we know it…

So, as I embark on the chaos that is Moving House, I’m taking a deep breath and bracing myself for an even busier autumn. A few weeks ago I heard somebody say of me that I am someone who, when faced with problems ‘just gets on with it’. This chirked me up no end. I have always thought I was someone who makes heavy weather of things. Now I have a reputation to live up to.

It’s been a good summer, taking one thing with another. I’ve laid down some great memories. Now I’m ready to ‘get on with it’ this autumn.

I’m on holiday, OK?

Climbing the old lighthouse at Torungen

Somebody, [Moo], said it would be a good idea to write a post saying we were going to be on holiday so don’t go looking for a post over the summer because there wouldn’t be one.

This is fine in theory, and I agreed. And here it is. The only problem as far as I can see is that nobody reads our posts anyway, so they don’t know that there won’t be one for them to miss.

But because I’m the youngest and I always, usually, sometimes when it suits me follow the advice of my elder sister, I am writing this post. I am in Norway atm, on the Oslo Fjord. I don’t know where Moo is exactly but she will be chilling [1]. We have learnt to chill. It wasn’t invented when we were young but we are making up for lost time now.

I’m not going to start a rant about what life used to be like in the 60’s and 70’s, though frankly I could and I might make it interesting. But now we are nearing our dotage it’s about time we had a bit of chill, I mean we have been busy girls all our lives so, you know...

‘Chilling’ is a bit of a funny expression to be honest, particularly now when the weather is so hot. The other reason I find it odd is that I constitutionally do not like to get cold, so no, I don’t want to chill – I want a nice stable temperature.  I presume it means to take the heat off the situation in an emotional rather than a literal physical sense, but even here I prefer emotional warmth to chilly cold. Suffice it to say I will accept the word in the sense of slow down and stop working, relax and drink tea, especially if it comes with toast and marmite or at a pinch chocolate digestives.

Somebody said to me yesterday that they thought I was a very busy person. This cheered me up no end as I have always secretly worried that I am lazy. I think I am a lazy person actually, but one with a lot to do. But, I’m thinking that if I have been labelled a ‘busy person’ then by rights I deserve a chill time.

Fishing near Arundel. I caught a cod....

So, back to the Oslo Fjord: that’s where we are based but I drove three hours down to the south of Norway this morning. and I am sitting in a cabin in the shade. My husband is sitting outside in the hot midday sun reading a book [he will regret this later, trust me], while our Norwegian friend is getting the boat ready for an outing [2], while our friend’s wife is cooking us lunch. She is frying chicken fillets and tossing a crisp green salad. I spied a couple of bottles of red in the kitchen earlier, so although they DON’T HAVE ANY TEA [let alone completely no digestives and even less Marmite] I might just survive.

How’s that for chilling?

Notes:

1 Moo would like it to be known that she is not actually chilling. No. She is working out how to use her new camera so she can be a super duper photographer [my expression not hers] and fill ours and other pages with exquisite, cool images. So good luck with that, sis.

2 Our trip was to the Arundel region, and we climbed the old lighthouse, manned by the uncle of Morten Morland who is a cartoonist in London for the Times etc [by the way] and we went on a fishing trip and I caught a cod. Which the Norsk friend can clean and gut [thank you very much] and we will eat...

A POCKET FULL OF HARD BOILED EGGS

We used to call him the 'mad uncle' in the West Wing.

I should be clear that, even though we lived in half a manor house at the time, it wasn’t grand, and it definitely didn’t have ‘wings’. But the Uncle in question was, well, not entirely sane though it may be unkind to label him as ‘mad’.

He wouldn’t smoke a cigarette at Christmas until it had been thrown over the garlands hanging from the ceiling in festive loops. He wore his slippers on the bus. He sung us Goon songs, and he drew funny cartoons.

Uncle was our father’s identical twin brother and they knew how to play tricks. He didn’t have a moustache and our Dad did. When we were little he visited us at bedtime, and we said goodnight and went upstairs. I think you can guess what’s coming. My Dad came up [with moustache] to say goodnight. Then he went out and came back [sans moustache] and pretended to be Uncle.  But even with identical twins there are minute differences that family members know, these little habits and inflections of speech that separate out identical people to their families. I think we were traumatised when we felt we didn’t really know if our Dad was our uncle pretending to be our Dad. Or if our uncle was our Dad pretending to be our uncle. This sort of thing scars kids.

It was never clear if it was Uncle’s idea to collect names on graves, but it provided one of the most interesting and enduring activities of our childhood. ‘Uncle Hunting’ must surely have come from him though; especially as it meant going out after dark in the country side, armed with torches, and involved his sons, nephew and nieces roaming around looking for him.

Even though he could be a challenge in later years my parents valiantly took him on holiday with them; they flew to the Channel Islands, they went to Germany, and they included him on one of their cruises. The point of cruises is they have masses of food, at point of need, all round the clock. Breakfast was a highlight for Uncle, and he had a particular passion for hard boiled eggs; I think the war generation never got over rationing. Uncle would go to the breakfast buffet and after consuming a normal breakfast he would stuff every available pocket with hard boiled eggs ‘for later’.

He was not the most moral of men, but we knew nothing of this when we were young. And though we thought he was funny, as we became older it became clear that often adults in the family found him a bit irritating…

And this is how I remember him: as two people really – a weirdly funny half-mad Uncle – and a man that got a bit lost towards the end of his life, where the close bond that should have tied him to his twin got so strained it broke. A warning for me to take care with relationships that I am not found guilty of harming those I love by taking them for granted or being selfish.

Uncle on left with beard. Dad on right without.

LIFE IN A RED HAT

Woke up this morning thinking thank goodness I won't be getting any more electioneering junk mail through the letterbox. Does anybody actually read this stuff anyway? I was getting to screaming point as every day I had to wade knee deep through leaflets to get out of the front door.

Why do these little things annoy me? A sign of your age, I hear you say. Well, maybe. I have noticed a certain tendency to irritation sometimes. It's only the little things though – litter louts, people walking their dogs on the beach where it's not allowed, people who park inconsiderately – that sort of thing. But the things that matter I take calmly. Anyhow, on the whole I do feel I'm entering a new free and easy phase of life.

Here are a few tell-tale signs I've noticed recently…

1. I’ve started muttering. This is the next stage on from talking to yourself. I know what I'm saying but anybody listening won't understand a word. And I don't care if nobody listens or understand either.

2. I don’t mind going out in scruffy clothes. In fact, I do it on purpose most mornings. I get dressed into what I call my dog walking clothes (because that's what they are). I deliberately do my hair how I think a mad dog lady would do it, as close as you can get without chopping it off in a straight line at chin level. I put on battered old trainers and a raincoat I've had for over ten years and I'm good to go. I don't give a tuppenny toot if people think I'm a bit odd. In fact, I rather hope they do. It's my way of enjoying myself.

3. I’ve started to Say Something if necessary. Yesterday a cyclist whizzed up behind me and the dog on a shared pedestrian/cyclist path and made me jump out of my skin. I found myself calling out after him, you've got a bell, why don't you ring it? Luckily, he didn't stop and thump me. I find myself Saying Something before I've had time to think. This is happening quite often now.

4. I'm prepared to take my camera out and about and take photos from strange angles and not care if I look silly! And I probably DO look silly, believe me.

 So I realise I must be practically into Red Hat* territory now. This brings a new freedom and its great! I've been looking forward to this for years, and I intend to enjoy it.

*See the poem by Jenny Joseph ‘Warning’ 

I MADE A PLAN....

Friday morning was supposed to be sunny until 9.00. Thinking of all the good advice I give people about planning their day [see The Back of an Envelope and an Eyebrow Pencil] I made a plan. I wrote what I had to do down and attached a time limit to them, and then ranked them in order of importance urgency. Note: this generally entails getting up early so it might put some people off.

6.00am Get up, have breakfast, clear up, make bed*, get dressed. Pack boot of car with bean plants for my allotment and Althea officinalis for the herb allotment. Plus a boot full of cardboard because Charles Dowding told me to, in preparation for 2 tonnes of compost.

*[If husband not still in it].

7.00 Drive to allotment, unpack car and plant bean plants and Althea officinalis plants, do some weeding, tie up some canes. Try to avoid glances from other allotmenteers who are probably wondering where I have been for the last three weeks. Easy to avoid glances if I hide behind weeds…

9.00 Head back home. Shower. Hair wash. Oh, divine! Clear up kitchen and answer emails. Put a wash on.

10.00 Work on assignment for college. It’s about resources. I’m nearly at 3,000 words and I must say it is not inspiring. Two hours should crack it…

12.00 I’m a good girl. I spent 2 solid hours writing and researching and I’m ready for a break. Have an early lunch. Clear up kitchen and make a plan for Alice to follow so she can cook dinner for 17.00

13.00 Out in the garden, hanging up wash, potting on courgettes and squash into bigger pots, writing a ‘sowing and planting’ list. Whatever month it is I always have just missed something. When I first look it is too early, so I wait and then it is too late. How does this happen every time? Take carrots and parsnip; I avoid the frost, then I miss the opportunity – where did it go?

14.00 Tidy office/pharmacy and dispensary ready for students at the weekend

15.00 Spend an hour writing part of a module study guide for the herbal medicine course.

16.00 Make a spelt bread sourdough and a rye sourdough and feel like I’m ‘back to basics’ in a rustic kinda way. Just don’t ask me what happened to my chickens last week.

16.30 Tidy garden room, just a bit.

17.30 Have dinner. Organise clear up. Work day is done. Now I get to relax with a book or laptop feeling smug that I have motored through the day getting things done. It works because I don’t have to make choices, the list tells me what to do. If I don’t have a list I get distracted and don’t achieve so much.

TBH, the smuggest feeling is that 2 hours at the beginning of the day. …