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Which probably qualifies as one of my longer blog titles. If I had the urge, I suppose I could draw up some kind of chart or spreadsheet entitled, “Ruth’s Blog Headings” but I don’t know that I can be bothered. It doesn’t sound that thrilling, does it?
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Coming out of my shell
It’s been a funny old week. I mean that in both senses of the word. Those long, uninterrupted days of early lockdown, where I could stay in bed if I liked, writing and supping tea, or amble about watering things and working out plot lines in my head are drawing to a close.
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It's the end of the world as we know it....
It's the end of the world as we know it… a slight exaggeration. It is the end of a huge part of our family life this week, however. Our youngest child will be leaving primary school on Friday and with her ends nearly fourteen years of a long and devoted relationship with Wickham Market Primary School.
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Words
If you’re of a certain age (and you’d need to have been watching Top of the Pops in 1982, by my calculations), you may remember a ditty called, “Words” by FR David which made it all the way to number 2 in the UK charts. FR had a strangely warbly voice, and even now, if the word, “words” comes up in conversation, I will either think or say, “words!” in a similarly trillworthy fashion.
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Not so much of the old
A couple of weeks ago, I took the plunge and bought a new mobile phone. I thought it would be easy peasy to switch over from my old one, but in spite of my children doing it all for me, it turned out I had the wrong sized sim card. After much huffing and puffing from me, finally, it started working. I’m still a bit hazy about what’s what, but am gradually getting there.
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It's been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon...
…. was the way Garrison Keillor began each Lake Wobegon segment in his, “A Prairie Home Companion” radio show. Everyone knows everyone in Lake Wobegon and all the rules. Lutherans drive Fords bought from Bunsen Motors, Catholics purchase their Chevys from Krebsbach Chevrolet, everyone has lunch at the Sidetrack Tap and the Statue of the Unknown Norwegian (so called because he left before the sculptor got round to asking him his name) is the high point of Main Street.
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From superhero to sadness and back again
Yesterday morning, I was driving up Chapel Lane towards the Hill. I was on the regular trek to buy food for my elderly parents, my elderly mother in law and husband and our family. I slowed down as I noticed a mother and a little boy walking along the road. He was stumping along in a determined fashion and as I went past, I noticed he was wearing a superhero mask. His stance, his gait and his age (around three) all screamed, “I am a superhero today! I have magical powers. There are no limits to my world.”
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Oh Schitt
I’ve always been drawn to a certain type of comedy. I like quirky characters, slow burn plot development and wit. One of my favourite sayings ever comes from one of the writers of “Seinfeld”. He said their credo on the show was “no hugging, no learning.” I liked that. Stuff happened (not much of it, admittedly) and no-one ever had a neat, end of show epiphany as a result.
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Nine (and very nearly a half) weeks
We’re over halfway through week nine of lockdown. At the beginning of all this, my search history reflected what was going on in my life, and presumably, lots of other people’s too. “Where can I buy strong bread flour?” (Nowhere, was the answer, but my husband discovered that 00 pizza flour made an acceptable substitute). “Where can I buy yeast?”
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I now declare this book open
If you’d told me at the end of last year that come May 2020, I would regularly hurl myself into the path of traffic while wearing a snazzy face mask, I would have laughed in, or near your face. Had you predicted that my last major social event would be a trip to Southampton to see my sister and her family while struggling with a cold of epic proportions, I would have been surprised.
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A quick spin around the ingredients, Clive
I’m the proud owner of three battered cookery books which I count as amongst my most precious possessions. One of them is signed by the author. They’re cookery books, but they are also beautifully written statements of intent. In their own way, they started a revolution. Their author was unlike anyone who had ever gone before, and I’d contend that no-one since has ever been quite like him.
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Digging for Victory
Yesterday morning, enjoying a restorative cup of tea after doing the daily mountain of washing up with the partner of all my joys and sorrows, he enquired what I was writing about this week. “Floyd, Stein and all those chefs I used to know,” I replied. “But it’s VE Day on Friday – what about that?” Quick as a wink, I changed horses in mid-stream, like a young gazelle leaping from crag to crag, very nearly tripping myself up on the similes and metaphors piling up all around me.
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I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike, I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride it where I like – oh hang on….
For no particular reason, the moment I first rode on my bike without falling off came into my mind the other day. It was a hot summer in Theydon Bois, and I was probably around 9. My sister and I were round at the Watkins girls’ in Barn Mead. Their garden featured an excellent sturdy seesaw with not one but two seats on each end, and a paved path that went all the way round the house.
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From Eastbourne to East Suffolk: The Unstoppable Adolphe Audusson
Yesterday morning I had my first Zoom meeting since lockdown. It was a cross between Celebrity Squares and Through the Keyhole, with our twelve little faces smiling out in a grid with various backgrounds. One of our number managed to conjure up an idyllic tropical beach by some Zoom-related wizardry. The rest of us offered windowsills, home offices, coloured in African animals and rather nice curtains as our backdrop.
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Ruth's Top Lockdown Tips
I love a list. There’s something very comforting about reading other people’s tips. If you agree with them, you get a warm glow of fellow feeling. “I’m not the only person in the world who is offended by hydrangeas! How wonderful.” If, however, you think the person is talking utter doggy doo, you can huff and puff self-righteously about how they’re wrong and you’re right. Either way, it’s a win-win situation.
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Surely you jest: some stuff I never thought I’d be writing about
Welcome back, valued and lovely readers. It’s Wednesday night, I’ve got a glass of wine to hand and I really should have written this earlier. Today I found myself pottering around doing all those things that I visualised myself engaging in the minute I went off on maternity leave, 17 years ago this July.
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Jane’s Beauty Tips meet Zanda’s Loo Roll
I was on Radio Suffolk on Monday night with the lovely Jon Wright. Gosh, how I love the radio! In the current climate, I didn’t even have to drive to the turreted palace which is Radio Suffolk HQ, but was able to slump on my creaky chair in the dining room and chat on the phone. Thanks Jon!
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Sax on the balcony
It’s been quite a week. My last post managed not to mention the C word at all, instead looking back fondly at loud nights and sticky carpets. There was a sad lack of loo rolls and pasta in the UK this time last week, but as I write, we are now going back to the type of rationing not seen since the Fifties.
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A Middle-Aged Mother in the Mosh Pit
Pre-marriage and motherhood, a big part of my life involved going to gigs. When I worked at Exeter University in the late Eighties and early Nineties, we got the chance to buy reduced tickets for all kinds of performers. Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine (remember them?) Joan Armatrading, Lenny Henry, Jasper Carrott and many more. I still kick myself for not turning out on a wet Wednesday night to see Primal Scream. That was probably their last gig before they hit the big time. Sigh.
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A load of old rubbish
I grew up in the Seventies. In some ways, it’s a miracle any of my generation are still here. Puffing on fags was widespread and no-one had any namby-pamby ideas about protecting children from second-hand smoke. Seat belts were a rather louche extra feature and our playgrounds featured high, steep slides, witch’s hat roundabouts that offered an exciting opportunity to injure yourself and of course hard concrete on which to fall.
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