Here’s a thing: if you chant Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, your life will change.
One change I didn’t expect was that I would decide to go vegetarian. Mavis is trying to do this too. Not in an obsessive way – if I’m served meat at a friend’s or relative’s house, I’ll eat it (with much enjoyment if my recent experience of a vegetarian diet is anything to go by), but I am trying very hard not to eat meat or its by-products, for environmental reasons.
I started by aiming for the Pescatarian option until a conversation with a passionate ocean conservationist put me off the idea. I am still investigating sustainable fish though and will keep you updated.
The challenge is combining vegetarianism with a Slimming World diet. Oh how sad I feel at the prospect, nay the actuality, of low fat cheese, no butter and low fat mayo.
So far I have had meat free sausages – not bad actually but you can’t live on them, soya mince chilli, again not bad but it has an unpleasant after taste, and roast dinner with fake steak, yorkshire pud and vege gravy (with added red wine). Mavis left her fake meat but I thought the roast was my most successful attempt to date.
Tonight I planned vegetarian shepherds pie. Earlier in the week I shoved loads of vegetables into the slow cooker as a base for the shepherds pie. Sadly, I made the mistake of adding potatoes. Potatoes, slow cooked for too long take on a nasty steamy flavour. The spuds were my first mistake. My second was to add soya mince – yes, that with the aftertaste. I flung in some soy sauce and decided against topping it with mash, as it already contained those steamy-tasting potatoes. Instead I topped it with Laughing Cow light triangles and 50% fat cheddar and bunged it in the oven for half an hour. It was horrible! Actually, the topping was lush but if I was doing it again I’d leave out the slow cooked spuds and the mince, add lentils and top with mash.
Lunch has been soup – every day – with Lo-dough. Pretty sustaining and tasty. Breakfast, scrambled eggs or vege sausages and beans. Delish, and only one syn for two sausages (I had three).
I have never cooked vegetarian, apart from for inconvenient guests (ooh err, I’m one of those now). My go-to recipe for them is Delia’s lentil Moussaka. Why I haven’t done this for myself I have no idea. Note to self: do it.
Reading back through this, I don’t know why I, a keen cook, have entered into this new lifestyle with such lack of imagination. I think it’s because I’m trying to find things Mavis will enjoy. Well, that worked well, didn’t it?
I’m going to persevere though. There must be tasty, low syn, vegetarian meals to be found. I don’t hold out much hope for official Slimming World recipes as my experience of those has been as unimpressive as the above.
Watch this blog for progress reports and recipes. I will succeed, for the benefit of the planet.
I’ve always been forgetful and absent minded, but living with Whizz has made me more aware of my shortcomings in this area. It’s not that he ever criticises me, but he has such an amazing brain that I can’t help comparing my own to his. Lately, probably due to work overload, I have become TERRIBLE at keeping to appointments. I have an electronic diary, it bongs at me (when the sound is turned on), but somehow I still get things wrong. About three weeks ago I got home from work and was pottering around while planning dinner, when the phone rang.
It’s Tinkle Dental Surgery here.’
A pause then, ‘Oh my God. Am I supposed to be there?!!! I am aren’t I? I’m SO SORRY.’
The voice smiles, ‘Don’t worry. We can make another appointment.’
Now the problem with my dentist is that her days off coincide with mine, which means that I have to go to her after work, something I am not in the habit of doing. I made a new appointment on a Monday evening, and spent the next week terrified of forgetting it again.
Monday came and I was delayed slightly at work. When I escaped, I dived into my car, parked, sprinted across the car park and up the stairs to the dentist’s reception desk gasping for breath. ‘So sorry I’m late.’ I panted, ‘ I got held up at work .’
The young and very chipper young man behind the desk, looked at me over his computer monitor and asked for my name, then he stared at the screen for a minute and looked worried.
I got that sinking feeling. ‘Have I missed it again?’
‘I don’t seem to have… Oh wait a moment, here you are… Your appointment’s next week not tonight.’
The following week I managed to arrive after the poor Hygienist had gone home. ‘I hate my life,’ I moaned to the amused receptionist, and banged my head on the desk several times.
We decided that Monday evenings wouldn’t work for me, and then it transpired that I could have a weekend appointment – who knew?’
My new appointment will be on 29th December. Lovely way to spend part of the Christmas break.
Despite my mental shortcomings, Whizz and I get along pretty well, mainly because, in some areas, our interests collide, and we share the same, sad sense of humour. When we walk the dog our discussions can be quite lively as I have reported here in the past.
On a recent tromp around the quarry I remarked that historically, love songs by men about women have focused on their looks only. I didn’t quote it but in fact the worst case of this I can think of, came from a childhood 78 record called The Girl That I Marry, who, according to the lyrics, ‘…will have to be, as soft and as pink as a nursery,’ and ”stead of flittin’ I’ll be sittin’ next to her and she’ll purr like a kitten.’ Yuck. I wonder if he found her and whether she became suicidal after a week of marriage.
Anyway, Livin’ Doll is pretty naff: ‘Got myself a cryin’ walkin’ sleepin’ talkin’ livin’ doll.’ and Poetry in Motion, walkin’ by my side,’ etc. I felt that things have changed for the better until Whizz pointed out that in modern times, women say or rap about men in a similar way. Could they not sing about their partner’s brains for a change? I need another walk with Whizz to devise some lyrics.
(By the way, I’m not old enough to have purchased 78 records. We had a collection of 78s handed down by my grandparents. The collection shrank each time we moved house, when many were broken.)
Back to our walk. I started picking on Happy Families – you know -the card game. I realised the all the men had the jobs, and the women were their wives: Mr Bun the baker, Mrs Bun the baker’s wife, and so on.
Whizz and I began to explore what a modern Happy Families pack might comprise, and this kept us occupied for ages. Here are some of the cards we came up with:
Master Race, the Neo-Nazi
Miss Tified, the Quantum Physicist
Major Cost, the plumber
Mrs Singh, the choir leader
Dr Facts, the US President
Professor Doubt, the Consultant
Councillor Couple, the Sex Therapist
Pastor Sellbydate, the Health Inspector
Mr Call the contact Centre Operative
Then Whizz got that twinkle in his eye. ‘And not forgetting,’ he grinned, ‘ Mrs Appointments, the Author?’
So I have time to blog, write, paint and generally catch up on domestic responsibilities. Well, that’s the theory, anyway. What has actually happened is that the time is, mainly enjoyably, slipping through my fingers. Nevertheless, here I am writing at last.
My dear uncle, mentioned in the previous post, departed this life recently. This was a devastating event, especially for his children, my cousins, and his older sister, my mum, who hobbled to the lectern and spoke very movingly at his funeral. Afterwards I was able, in his memory, to break my diet at the wake, on sandwiches, and a scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam. I gained half a pound when weighing in at Slimming World on only my second week.
Death is not funny, but it is inevitable and over the years I, somewhat morbidly, have collected anecdotes about the interesting and sometimes amusing circumstances relating to it. This preoccupation might explain why I write books about people dying. Take a look here to read the first (so far the only, and I should be working on its sequel now – not blogging).
It is one of the characteristics of Brits, that we make a joke about the most terrible events – perhaps it is because we are not so good at putting our feelings into words. To many this tendency will seem horrible and insensitive, but you have to believe that we have the feelings, it’s just one of the ways we face the world with them.
My first story came from Woman’s hour, years ago, and I believe the theme was that you can bury your loved ones in any way you choose. Something like that. The interviewee was a lady, let’s call her Imelda, I hope this wasn’t her real name, I don’t remember anything about her apart from what she did.
Imelda’s mother died after a long and disabling illness that kept her house-bound. Prior to her decline, Mum had been active and had many friends, but the friends had become equally disabled by age and so were unable to visit her before she died.
Upon her mother’s demise, Imelda decided not to leave her with the funeral directors and instead brought her and her coffin home, so that she could chat to mum and say her goodbye’s thoroughly. I’m not sure how long this took but having satisfied this desire, Imelda popped the coffin into the back of the car and took her mother to visit all her decrepit friends, so that they could bid her farewell, too. One can’t help wondering how the friends felt about this but clearly they were polite and offered tea and biscuits – to Imelda of course, this isn’t a Monty Python sketch.
Having done this, Imelda took her parent to her favourite spot, for a last look at the view before she was returned to the funeral director’s for her final exit.
The second story is more a situation that tickled me, about a woman whose husband dropped dead while they were away on holiday in their caravan. He fell straight down the middle of the ‘van so that she had to step over his body each time she made a cup of tea for the paramedics (we used to call those, ambulance men, I don’t think there were any ambulance women then, but now there are, it does seem more appropriate to give them a generic name). This picture has stuck in my head for years – I told you I was morbid.
More recently, the mother of a neighbour’s son-in-law died. The funeral was sad but went according to plan and the wake was held in the deceased lady’s beautiful garden.
The guests stood under the trees in the rolling lawns, sipping wine and nibbling on canapees when there was a gasp, and one of the older members of the group dropped down dead.
An ambulance was called and while the crew attempted, unsuccessfully, to revive the poor guest, the son of the lady whose funeral it actually was, had to make polite conversation with the remaining guests. Ghastly.
Finally, this week, here in Pebbleditch, a death with a hopefully happy ending:
I have changed the names and written this from my imagination as I was not actually present. Apologies if I got anything wrong.
Our village has been lucky enough to have a new football pavilion and the opening ceremony – albit some months after it started to be used – was held last Sunday. The celebration was also to induct local people in the use of the new defibrillator, installed on the wall of the building.
An expert in heart disease explained the symptoms that might indicate that a person was about to have a heart attack.
Raymond, the Vice Chair of the Parish Council, was sitting on a bench next to a somewhat generously proportioned gentleman.
‘The first sign might be profuse sweating,’ The instructor informed the audience.
Raymond looked at the man, who was sweating profusely.
‘Next the patient may become pale…’
The colour drained from the man’s face.
‘The victim may also become short of breath.’
At this point, the fat guy panted for a bit then dropped to the ground with a coronary thromboses. His heart stopped working and he had in fact, died.
You may be surprised to read that there were a number of paramedics on the scene and a defibrillator. He is now in a specialist hospital making his recovery.
I don’t know how to finish this post except with a joke, borrowed from my brother’s play, Losing Louis:
An old lady was very upset as her husband William had just passed away. When she visited the undertakers to have a final look at her dear hubby she became distraught. Through her tears she explained to the undertaker that she was heartbroken to see her dearest William wearing a black suit, when it had been his wish to be buried in a blue one. The undertake apologised profusely, explaining that they always put bodies in a black suit, but he would see what he could arrange.
The dear lady returned the next day to have one last moment with William and when the undertaker pulled back the curtain, she smiled through her tears because William was smartly clad in a blue suit. ‘That’s wonderful,’ the lady cried, ‘but where did you get that beautiful suit?’
‘Well,’ explained the Undertaker, ‘Yesterday afternoon after you left, a man about your husband’s size was brought in and he was wearing a blue suit. His wife was quite upset because she wanted him buried in the traditional black suit.’
William’s wife smiled at the undertaker. ‘That’s such good luck. So you swapped the suits over.’
Our life, as you may have gathered from your avid reading of these posts, is a confusing mix of technology and creativity, fitted around a number of domestic and canine responsibilities.
The last fortnight has been further complicated by an uncle with cancer, currently at the mercy of a caring but overstretched NHS, parents celebrating a 65th Wedding anniversary, and a letter emphasising a financial obligation we have been trying to ignore.
The upshot of this is that I have been cooking for England (very enjoyable and creative), obtaining quotes from builders and zooming off to the hospital on my days off.
Time has become tight, and this fact stimulated a conversation about how technology could benefit my life (in the humble opinion of my husband). We are talking about his other woman again, she who must not be named (in case she buts in to our conversation to tell us a joke, or apologise for not being able to answer a question we never asked her in the chuffing first place).
Up until today, I have been delighted to be able, vocally, to add items to my shopping list, while, with an erratic record of success, Alexa has inserted some of that list into my on-line Tesco shopping cart, with no intervention from me. As a system, it is not that reliable, sometimes the thing she adds to the list is so far removed from the thing I intended that I have difficulty remembering what it should have been. On other occasions, I get the right thing but in the wrong form, so I might say, ‘Alexa, add sweetcorn to my shopping list,’ and get the frozen stuff when I always buy ‘Ho ho ho Green Giant‘.
I don’t mind this complication too much, because the very fact of being able to add something to the shopping list while my hands are plunged into the washing up water, or covered in flour and pastry, is the greater part of the benefit for me. Of course Whizz was straight to the rescue anyway. The shopping would be better served, not with Tesco, who apparently pull the data from Alexa, but with Ocado, who push it. I think that’s right. What I mean is that instead of me adding an item to my list then Tesco fetching it, I tell Alexa to ask Ocado to put an item into my trolly. In this way, stocks and options are checked by Ocado before the request is processed.
Alexa gets quite chatty during the process. ‘How does this sound.’ she asks, ‘Green Giant sweetcorn four pack?’
I can ask for alternatives and she will offer them, and when I have the item I want I say, ‘Yes’, and she asks if I want to add anything else, and so it continues. She gets a little belligerent if, as I did when I couldn’t get the words out, or the options she was offering were not suitable, I simply said ‘Stop’
‘OK,’ she spat, ‘Goodbye,’
The next time, I tried being more polite and said, ‘Thank you,’ when she got an item right.
She asked ‘Did you say thank you?’
‘Yes’ I replied to which she said ‘I’m sorry, I can’t find an item called thank you.’
It’s all about the language, you see. She needs to be asked using exactly the right terminology, without repetition, hesitation or deviation. Attempting to order Splenda Minis (artificial sweetener tablets) I said ‘Splenda Millie…’ then corrected to ‘Minnies’,
‘Sorry, she replied, ‘I can’t find Splenda Millie-Minnies.’ Whizz and I got the giggles, which confused her even further. From this day forth those tablets will be known in our family as Millie-Minnies.
And another saying enters our (for some) already baffling family vocabulary.
We hear a lot of funny stories from (not about) our guests so I have decided that in addition to Child Stories I should have this new series called Guest Jest. The first of these, the flippy floppy hat, has already been posted as the third funny thing, under a different title in a previous article.
I somehow think that most of these stories are destined to come from one, special guest, The Engineer. The Engineer has been staying with us once a week since 8th September 2015, so we know him quite well. We are acquainted, directly or indirectly, with his family and friends too, in fact it’s true to say that he is a ‘Paying Friend’. The Engineer brings beer and (usually) fixes broken things, so we like him a lot.
This week, The Engineer has had an eventful time both domestically and socially.
At home, some impending visitors caused his wife to insist that he fix the defective flush mechanism on their loo.
The toilet was prone to flush continuously unless the button was prodded and thumped. On investigation, he decided that a new mechanism was required so he removed the cistern and replaced the flush mechanism, returned the cistern to its place again and flushed. Sadly, water began dribbling from its connection with the pipe. It didn’t take a genius to conclude that there was a leak where before there had been none.
It being difficult to detect exactly what was leaking, The Engineer removed the cistern and enlisted his wife to help find it (the leak). He half filled it (the cistern) with water and sat in the conservatory with it resting on his parted knees while Wifey knelt below, trying to see what had gone wrong. The underside of the tank was wet so she got some kitchen roll and began to dry the area.
This was the point at which things went wrong. It seems that the workings of the newly fitted flush mechanism were nearby, and quite by accident the poor lady set it off. The result was a face full of water for her and filled shoes for him – and a lot of mopping up.
Toilet fixed, The engineer set off for his weekly commute from Surrey, bunking at various places, including ours. On this particular evening we were to be deprived of his company; he was to dine with some colleagues. Lucky him, he was being driven to the restaurant. After a brief chat with us he set out to walk towards his workplace, intending to meet his chauffeur en route. He wasn’t sure what car the guy drove but was relieved when a red Ford Focus, driving towards him, indicated and pulled across the road, stopping a little behind him.
He swung round and opened the rear door. There was a large rucksack on the rear seat, right where he wanted to sit so he grabbed it to move it to the other side of the car. Suddenly a hand shot out from the driver’s side and gripped his wrist. He looked up, into the eyes of a compete stranger. Wrong car!
This puts me in mind of another story, also hear-say but I have no reason to disbelieve it:
Many years ago LH and I had some friends with the strangely normal names, Michael and Karen. These friends were responsible for introducing us to a load of Hooray Henries who called one another ‘Chap’. From M and K we also learned where in Kinsale, Ireland, we could go for a drink, in every one of the 24 hours that made up an average day, and how to lose at Poker. They owned a bulldog called Horace that was partial to a Vindaloo curry – that’s not relevant but adds to the somewhat eccentric nature of the people concerned.
The couple (Karen eventually ran off with the plumber) lived in a house in the Midlands, a quaint place with oak beams. Their drinks cabinet – this is relevant – was an old pine corner cupboard, mounted on the wall in the sitting room.
The Hooray Henries treated Michael and Karen’s house like home. They would often wander in for a drink when they were passing. Eventually, M and K moved to a larger house but may have failed to mention this to one or two of their more irritating acquaintances. As a result, one afternoon, a particularly gormless ‘chap’ wandered into the house and proceeded to help himself to a drink from the pine cupboard.
He heard footsteps coming down the wooden stairs and turned to raise his glass to Karen. The person who met his gaze was neither Karen, nor was he delighted to meet him.
The only moral I can think of is: Never call anyone ‘Chap’ as in ‘Hello Chap, how are you?’ I apologise to all public school persons who don’t do this – never would I describe you as Hooray Henries, even if you happen to be Members of Parliament.