A well-balanced meal

It was the thought of enjoying a small pot of orange jelly this lunchtime that kept me going through a relentlessly dull morning.  Then I discovered that an over-zealous co-worker had put all the teaspoons in the dishwasher.  Now, I know of some colleagues who rashly open the machine when it's going to extract what they need, but I am not of that number.  Not being one to relish scalding hot water all over my feet, I was left with few alternatives.

Going without the jelly never crossed my mind, and I've been brought up not to put knives in my mouth, so that only left the tea bag squeezer or a fork.  The tea bag squeezer had holes in it, and even I know that squeezing jelly is probably best avoided in the workplace.  Forks, however, are of a generally similar disposition to spoons, being curved; I decided to try one.

The first forkful was fine, but then the jelly started breaking up and slipping through the prongs.  A bit plopped out onto the book I was reading, so I just slurped that up, grateful that I was alone in the staff room.  Inspired, I tried slurping the rest of the jelly direct from the pot, but it was a bit less fluid further down, so that was no good.  I turned the fork round and, holding the now sticky prong end, scooped with the handle.  That was fine, but frustrating as I could only pick up a tiny amount at a time.  By this time though, I'd nearly reached the bottom of the pot where it was rather more solid.  One final go with the prong end and a bit more slurping and I was done.   It was only a small jelly, and I probably used more than the one calorie it contained in my efforts to consume it.

On reflection, I could have attempted making a spoon from the silver foil I'd wrapped my piece of cheese in... and only now, some four hours later, do I realize that I should have covered the prong end of the fork with the foil!

French leave

Having just returned from a relaxing short break in France, I dedicate this post to poor Mr Saunders, my old French teacher.  He wasn't old when I met him, but I suspect he aged rapidly thereafter.  I disrupted more of his classes than I care to remember, but he still wouldn't let me drop the subject.  I argued passionately - what was the point?  I hated French, couldn't do it and couldn't imagine ever needing to speak it.  It was Lowestoft in the 1970s, for goodness sake; a day trip to Norwich was a major expedition!  Crossing the harbour bridge was enough for me, particularly after it stuck open, and the army had to come and build a temporary footbridge.  I was certainly never going to cross the Channel.

However, the poor man insisted, so I struggled resentfully on and, by some miracle, managed to pass my 'O' level at grade C.  I think this was less due to the efforts of Mr Saunders than to my practising vocabulary in bed with my then boyfriend (later to become my first husband) on Saturday mornings.  {C'est quoi ca? Vraiment?  Je ne pense pas que ca serai dans mon exam...} If it hadn't been for the fact that, after two years of teasing him mercilessly I was feeling rather sorry for Mr S by then, I wouldn't have bothered.  There are better things to be doing on Saturday mornings, after all.

Now though, I have nothing but gratitude for that unfortunate teacher.  I have, contrary to youthful expectation, spent many happy weeks in France, secure in the knowledge that I can not only ask for directions and buy food, but have actual conversations about politics, geography and complex family relationships!  My life is richer for it, and I feel that I should write to the new Pope and demand that, as one of his first actions, he elevate Mr Saunders to the ranks of the Blessed, if not actual sainthood.

Stuff of life

When I moved to Yorkshire, my possessions were few.  The only furniture I owned was a desk and a folding chair, although I did buy a bed on the day I moved in.  I had some precious photos to put on the walls, but that was pretty much it.  This was partly through circumstance, but mainly because that was how I liked it; minimal.  And, if you'd asked me this morning, I'd still have said that I prefer not to be surrounded by a load of things.  (Apart from my desk, but that's just work in progress, obviously.)  Then I came home tonight and, while washing up my breakfast things, I realised just how much stuff I've accumulated because, in the words of William Morris, I know it to be useful or believe it to be beautiful.

This, for example, is only part of the stuff surrounding my kitchen sink.

Left to right, back row: 2 wine jugs from a French boot fair, pot plant, stones from Suffolk, vase of flowers, 1 large sheep and 2 small elephants, stones from Yorkshire with a small wooden angel I found in the garden, another pot plant, shell from Carnac, beermat from Suffolk, (Adnams Bitter, I'm afraid, but a nice picture) stones from France, a salt candle holder and a small hanging lamp (not hanging from anything).

Front row: ceramic yoghurt pot, strainer spoon, coasters, dog biscuits, 2p coins, 1p coins, handcream, liquid soap and paint brushes for when I get round to putting another coat of enamel over the nasty grey trim on the kitchen cupboards.

I think it's a sign of a full and happy life.  That is my story, and I'm sticking to it like chewing gum to the cat.

Room with a view

It was actually light when I left for work this morning; really light, not the feeble grey murk I've come to expect over the last few weeks.  Even better, it was still light when I got home, and stayed that way for over an hour.  So instead of settling down to do some writing, I've been staring out of the window.  My fruit trees are just starting to bud, and they look lovely.  A poor excuse, I know.  Especially when you consider the achievements of others, who had much better views than I have to distract them.

Take Dickens, for example.  Several years ago I visited Bleak House in Broadstairs and stood at his desk, gazing at the sea. OK, so the English Channel isn't the most beautiful waterway in the world, but on that particular day it was calm all the way to the horizon, and it was completely mesmerising. In rough weather it must be amazing. How Dickens ever managed to put pen to paper there I'll never know, let alone write something the length of David Copperfield.

All I've managed to write tonight is a note to the man who's coming tomorrow to lop the tops off the very trees I've been gazing at.  They might be lovely, but they are too tall.  I am slightly worried about the pruning, as my beloved will be supervising the proceedings and, if I don't leave detailed instructions and a diagram, it could be 'short back and sides and stand up straight' for my sentries, rather than 'just follow the wave and trim it a bit'.   Then the only view I'd have would be of the Leisure Centre; hardly distracting, but not very inspiring either.