Sunshine on window boxes

At about this time of year, I start to get hopeful. The mornings get lighter. I start to leave work as the sun sets, looking at my beautiful adopted city bathed in impossible - and impossible to photograph - colours. Then it gets lighter earlier still, and soon I'll be leaving the office in daylight. The quality of light starts to change - this could be fanciful, but it starts to feel stronger, richer. It is still freezing cold outside most days, but it starts to become possible to believe that some time soon, spring will come.

Packed lunch: baked vegetable frittata

So, I'm not blogging much at the moment. Am I the only one who sometimes finds that when the to-do list gets too long, even if each and every one of the things on it is fun, everything becomes a chore, even the things that are meant to be a hobby? 

I'm tired, I've got a couple of (good) things I really need to think hard about, and one or two less fun things to worry at (a boiler being one of them. Sometimes home ownership sucks). There's uncertainty in the air right now, and that always messes with my head. So I've given myself a week or two off feeling guilty about things, for the sake of preserving my sanity. I'll probably blog a bit - the second I no longer feel obliged I'll want to - but it's not going to be every day again for a wee while. Sorry.

I have a holiday coming up in a week, and suspect that after that, I'll be back blogging more frequently.

However, I do need to share this recipe for baked vegetable frittata with you. I wish I could take credit for it, but it's actually (whisper it) from the Weightwatchers website. But it's yummy. And easy. And filling. And if you care about this sort of thing, it's only two propoints a wedge. Unless you're me and decide that the yummyness would only be improved by a tablespoon of mature cheddar on each slice. In which case it's three.

The thing is, I find frittata... hassly. Frying a selection of veg, then the omlette, it all sticking in the pan and being a pain, and the whole flat smelling eggy. But because for this one you cook the veg, then bung 'em all like a dish like a quiche and wander away while it bakes, it's easy. We've had it for dinner - in which case I'd allow a couple of slices, and serve it with something more substantial than a salad - and the leftovers for lunch. And it was so yummy sliced up cold the next day, the following week I made it and we had it for lunches all week. A wedge of not-fried frittata, baked with the cheese on top, and a nice salad. Yum. Go and make yourself some. It's lush.

C25k week one: ugly shoes and a radish-red face

So, I've finished week one of couch to five k.

After getting through the door, and for about an hour afterwards, my face was this colour:

Radishes. Picture courtesy of La Grande Farmer's Market on Flickr

The trainers are still ugly. When combined with iphones in special arm holster things and funny water bottles you can hold while you're running, bleach and paint-stained jogging bottoms and a hoody nicked off the husband, the look gets even better. And when you add a face that's the colour of a radish - and I'm not exaggerating, that's exactly the shade I go - the overall effect is not glamorous.

In terms of actual progress with the program - well, I'm getting there. You may have noticed that it's taken me more like two weeks to complete week one. That's partly because of a schedule that made a missed workout in the first week inevitable, and partly because I was ill on Monday of this week and for a couple of days walking to the bus wasn't going to happen, let alone attempting to run.

The very first time we did the workout, it was just so much harder than I was expecting. After all, I wasn't strictly on the couch - I was fitter than I had been for a while after a couple of months of working out obsessively (for me) on the Wii - and getting properly sweaty and horrible, not just fannying around. But I ran the first minute much too fast - not fast at all, but not slow enough. After that I'd knackered myself so much that I could only run for 40 seconds of the next minute. And the next, and so on. I ran for the full minute twice, and for forty seconds six times.

And you know what? I was still incredibly proud of myself. I didn't stop - either ran, or walked, but never stopped.

The second time was easier - I walked the last part of the third minute, and the final minute - I got a stitch.

Going out again this week, a week after I'd last run? Actually easier than I was expecting - I gave up during the third minute, and when confronted with  a steep unpaved slope in the last minute, but also suddenly realised that I was stopping for purely psychological reasons, and that I could actually have kept going.

We realised that the gaps, and the fact I still wasn't running the full distance, meant we'd have to repeat at least some of the week, and so re-did the last session for our last session.

This was the hardest one at all. We were running in warmer weather, at a different time of day, into strong winds. For whatever reason, both the husband and I found it harder than usual.

BUT I DID IT. There were a couple of seconds where I stopped running and walked for a second or two - once when I dropped my ipod, once because I didn't have my iphone with me to see I only had five seconds left and force myself on - mine was in the shop so the husband was using his app and telling me when to run and walk. But I'm still happy with that. Happy enough to start trying week two next week. And slightly scared!

But I've learnt a lot this week. First, to run incredibly slowly. As someone who only ran to catch a bus, I didn't really know anything about pacing myself, and although I'd read enough advice saying run slowly, I didn't know what it means. I do now. I run at a pace that feels barely faster than walking, although actually it is.

Secondly, that I can always go further than I think I can, and that it's my brain giving up when I stop, not my legs or lungs. I find it incredibly helpful to glance at how many seconds I have left when I think I'm about to give up, because I can then say "Surely you can do 10 more seconds? Just try" and manage it. I realised I always started walking during the third minute because I think "God, I'm exhausted and I'm not even nearly halfway through yet" and give up, thinking it's all impossible. Now I know this, I can carry on. The minutes after that one I always find easier. I've also started urging myself on to the next street lamp, the next bus stop, after a tip from my boss. "Come on, you can make it to there, that's no distance." Bizarrely, it helps.

Thirdly, that no-one looks twice at a fat girl in bad sportswear with a radish-red face trying to run. Certainly no-one points, or shouts. It sounds ridiculous that I was scared of this - but I was. And they didn't. No-one cares. This is brilliant, and liberating. (I've also thought of what I'd shout back, though, just in case.)

And finally, although I've always worked out best on my own, doing it for no-one but me, I'm really enjoying doing this with the husband. Although he annoyingly finds it far easier than me - even though he was less fit than me to start with, he weighs so much less and is so much taller, he has a massive advantage over me. I tell myself that he wouldn't do nearly so well carrying a suitcase (roughly the difference in our weights), and that satisfies the competitive part of me. But heading out together, urging each other on, listening to the same playlist so we both laugh when Dolly Parton comes on - it all helps. And it's great that we're making progress together, and when we come back, exhausted, smelly, but so very proud of ourselves - that's a wonderful feeling to share.

So onwards and upwards. For the first time in my life I'm running - even just for a minute - because I want to, not because I have to. And I'm starting to enjoy it. Who knew?

Five years

Five years ago, one Friday, I had the day off, because I'd worked the Sunday before. I spent the day relaxing at home, and baking an amazing chocolate pudding for a dinner party I was going to the next day.

Just as I was washing up, I got a text message from a friend asking me if I was coming out to the pub. My original plans for that evening had fallen through, and the day before, she suggested I joined her and her colleagues for their after-work drinks.

I wasn't sure if I could be bothered, and texted back to ask if there was any talent.

She replied, "No, but there's good craic. You should come."

So I brushed my hair, changed into a top that didn't have chocolate down the front, slicked on a bit of eyeliner so I looked vaguely awake and spritzed some perfume, and jumped into a taxi across town, hoping for a bit of banter, a couple of drinks and a laugh.


It was a good crowd, and a good night. And as I was chatting to one of my friend's colleagues, I noticed that I rather disagreed with her about the talent. Over the other end of the group, I saw someone rather nice. Tall, dark and handsome. He saw me. One of his eyebrows shot up, and we both went back to our conversations.

I remember thinking, "He's cute. Shame, though, because he's talking to that bloke everybody says is a wanker. He probably is too."

But after a few moments, he came up to me and uttered the immortal opening line: "Are you Irish too?" (The friend was Irish, not the annoying type who thought it was cool to say "craic" five years ago.)

I laughed, said in my very English voice, "You obviously haven't heard me talk yet", and we got talking. Turned out he wasn't a wanker.

We talked for an hour or so, about nothing, about everything. At one stage he disappeared. I remember being surprised, thought he wouldn't have gone without saying goodbye. But when he turned up beside me five minutes later, I got a bit more confident. I later learnt that the five minutes had been spent hiding in the gents, plucking up courage to ask me out.

And when the friend and I decided to leave, he did ask me for my number. His hands were shaking slightly, so I offered to put it into his phone for him. I just managed not to dance out of the pub.

The next day he texted and asked me out. And the day after, we met for a coffee, and stayed out for five hours talking.

Three years later, we got married.

Two years on, I'm still pinching myself.

Little pretty things: French letters

 

When I was a little girl, I used to ask my mother why I never got any letters.

Rather than explaining to me that the letters grown-ups get are in fact very boring, mostly bills and bank statements, she would explain that you had to write letters in order to get letters.

I would then go away and work out who I could write to, so they could write back and I could get a letter of my own. If I didn't get distracted in the process - usually by a book, because very little has changed - I would get out a pen, whichever writing paper I had been given the Christmas or birthday before, complete with sheet of lined paper as a guide, and start writing. I suspect my grandmothers or Great Aunt were the lucky recipients of these epistles, given the high likelihood of them writing back, and I still have a letter my Great Aunt once wrote to me, tucked into the recipe book from her childhood she sent me (that's a whole different post!) Sadly, these three wonderful ladies all died before I entered my teens, so I have no way of checking what sort of correspondent I was!

These days, I get plenty of letters. And let me tell you, boy are they boring. Junk mail, pension statements, bank statements, credit card statements. I'm beginning to realise that no post that comes in a window envelope is ever worth having. 

So when a handwritten envelope drops through the door, it's exciting. Even more so if it's not Christmas or my birthday. And even more so when you recognise the handwriting and realise it's an update from a friend you don't see enough of.

There's something wonderful about saving a "real" letter to read with a little drinky or a cup of tea, and catching up on news. Reading it another couple of times over the next couple of days while starting to think of a reply. And then finally getting out a proper pen and paper, sitting down at a table and starting to write.

So when I realised I had run out of notelets, and had nothing apart from tiny correspondence cards and great sheets of printer paper in the house, it was the perfect excuse to nip out to Paper Tiger and spending a happy ten minutes choosing stationery. 

I took home the above. I couldn't resist the pretty designs, based on vintage French fabrics (hence French letters - what else did you think I meant?), the envelopes, and the fact that it comes in its own sturdy box, perfect for stacking the letters I get in return in, just like I used to when I was eight. 

I wish I'd kept them. It would be lovely to read a letter from Granny now. 

Maybe it's because I'm not a Londoner any more.

Oops, went quiet again. Sorry. Although I knew I was going away for a week, I thought as I was bringing my laptop with me there would be no interruption in blogging. Lesson learnt: in future I'll either schedule posts in advance or explain that I'm going somewhere!

I had a pretty amazing birthday - as you probably gathered from the Balmoral post, the Husband was pulling out all the stops to spoil me, and on the day itself I had a wonderful time and received many very lovely presents.

The next day we got on a train and headed down to London - or suburban Bromley, to be more precise - to spend a week staying with my folks. The weekend was for family celebrations (once again, spoilt rotten), and then the week itself for catching up with friends - going from Belgravia to Brixton via Sloane Square all in an afternoon, I nearly melted my slightly-too-pristine Oystercard.

The thing is, I used to be a Londoner. Grew up in deepest, darkest suburban South London, went to school in another suburb, lived there from the age of five till the age of eighteen, and every university summer. As my parents still live there, I've always had a key that leads me to a house, and a bedroom, within a stone's throw of London town, and I've always been proud that however long I've been away, I'm still a Londoner at heart - get in my way on the tube and see me snarl. 

But last week I realised I'm not a Londoner any more.

With each old haunt revisited, the feeling grew - the city has become a tapestry of happy memories for me, but is no longer home.

It was wonderful to see so many people I love, and the pang of saying goodbye to every single one of them nearly drew me back. And as I skipped between so many different places, all looking so very full of promise in the sun, of course I thought, briefly, of moving back.

But in the ten-ish years since I left (taking an average from all the little leaving homes that happen at university) London's changed. That Oystercard - which finally I can use on pay as you go in South London - is just one symbol. This trip I finally got around to going to Tate Modern, which opened after I left, and tried not to cry at the Ai Weiwei sunflower seeds, behind rope, as its creator is behind bars.

And for every change in the city, there's been a change in me.When I left, so hungry for success, I assumed I'd come back - to get to the top, I'd need to be in London.

Now, I guess I'm hungry for happiness. That doesn't mean I've left ambition behind me - I'm never going to be happy if I'm bored at work - but it's not the only thing that matters. Although I'd still like to be near the bright lights, now it's also important to be near the open spaces.

So I've popped my Oystercard back in the drawer and found my Lothian buses ridacard, slipped it into my handbag, planned my next escape to open country.

And after that I'll pencil in my next visit to the Big Smoke.


Back to the recipes tomorrow I promise...

Escape!

This time last week, I escaped.

Ran out of the office, into the waiting car of a handsome man, and disappeared to the seaside. Ate fish and chips and felt the salt breeze in my hair. We stared out at the sun playing on the sea, holding hands. The only sound we could hear was bird song and the crashing of the waves.

Or, in less fanciful terms - I had a half day at work. The Husband met me outside and we drove over the Forth Bridge to Fife, and carried on till we reached the beautiful East Neuk.

We went to Anstruther, and ate fish and chips at the Anstruther Fish Bar, which has run out of room for all its awards, but is meant to be the best chippy in the UK. It was indeed pretty special - chips crisp on the outside and fluffing inside, and the freshest, crispest batter. I was amused to see a whole crew of ambulance workers ahead of us in the queue though - surely if anyone knows that fish and chips aren't the best idea, it's the people who take Scotland's heart attack victims to hospital?

The weather was beautiful - the sky was the deepest blue, and it was warm enough to leave your coat open.

We decided to follow a part of the coastal walk along to Pittenweem. Although it took us a while to find it, and even when there were signs they were a little confusing, it was worth it when we did. The walk was just a mile but I couldn't have felt further away from Edinburgh, from work, from the Husband's job hunting and the stresses of everyday life. It felt like a whole holiday in half a day.

I took lots of pictures on my phone - here are a few of them.

Shells embedded into the side of a building on the main street

Less-than-clear signage

But worth persisting. Can you believe this picture was taken in Scotland in March?



A kitchen cupboard drama.

The Husband and I had been house hunting casually for a couple of months when we first saw the Gin Palace. A couple of weeks beforehand we'd stepped it up to serious after he proposed, because we are the sort of masochists who enjoy moving house and planning a wedding at the same time.

We'd seen several flats. And, Edinburgh's housing stock being what it is, even back in those overheated times, many of them had been lovely. I'd thought more of them lovely than The Husband did - being an architect, he's boringly practical about things like, I don't know, not having room for a wardrobe in the master bedroom and having to keep it in the second bedroom, him not being able to stand up in the bedroom because of coombed ceilings, or kitchens too small for two people to stand next to each other - even two very much in love recently engaged people. I do apologise to each and every householder we sickened.

But when we saw the Gin Palace it was different. As we walked from room to room, admiring high ceilings, huge windows, stripped floorboards and storage space, as well as walls that whispered "We want to hang your pictures, we want to store your books" we didn't dare say anything, and just gripped each other's hand tighter.

There was, however, one small hitch. The kitchen. It's small. It's not tiny by Edinburgh standards - although it was once a cupboard, it's also got a good slice taken off the second bedroom. Two people can cook in it together so long as they like each other. The morning after a dinner party, one person can cook a fry up, one wash up, and one dry up drinking tea telling stories about how baffling men are. But there's no room for a stool, let alone a breakfast bar, and a dining kitchen is still very much a far-off dream. Meals are carried the length of the flat and eaten at the dining table in the living room.

And while the décor is fine, it's not great. Blue and yellow checked tiles that owe a lot to the late 90s. Slightly battered wood-effect units that don't have nearly enough room to hold all our junk, and stop a good two feet short of the ceiling. There's no room for a freezer, just a tiny compartment in our fridge, and no microwave. The lighting is dim, as you may have noticed from my pictures

Just after Christmas, we'd decided to take advantage of interest free credit on Ikea and get it redone. We had plans for high gloss floor to ceiling units, teal splash backs to match the Le Creuset (I know, I know), and a little magic with the design to fit in a freezer. No microwave or dishwasher quite yet.

We'd made an appointment for a designer to come out and then… my husband lost his job.

Ikea, bless them, refunded us the £20 deposit for the appointment. And the plans went on hold.

Until. Last week, I acknowledged two basic facts: I am never again going to feel comfortable getting into debt for something I don’t need, and it's going to be a long, long time before I feel comfortable dropping £3000 or so, even if properly saved up for, on something I don't need. And: a lot can be done with our kitchen to make it better for a tenth of that. A lightbulb moment for which I thank this post on the Tiny Assed Appartments blog.

So I've started making plans. Plans involving specialist primer and tile paint, storage solutions and labels, LED light fittings and electrician's quotes, and a stout hammer to fix a couple of the more shoogly units.

The Husband rightly pointed out, as I was making lists with a demonic look in my eye, that starting to paint the units last weekend would have been insanity given that we were both knackered. That's on hold, probably until the Royal Wedding long weekend, because I appear to have joined the ranks of people who think an extra Bank Holiday is an excuse for DIY.

But I did drag him to Ikea. And we did fix part one: the junk on top of the units. Here are some before pictures - bear in mind that our kitchen is strangely photogenic, especially with a flash on - it's not that nice really. All the colours are more saturated.



Kitchen sink, array of pans, and shoogly cupboard



Yes, we did tidy for this. Junk on top of cabinets, part one.

Junk on top of cabinets, part two. Kitchen too small to get far enough away to get whole wall in shot!

And here it is now, with neat storage baskets. We're planning to hang old-fashioned luggage labels on them so I can distinguish the box of tuppaware from the box of baking utensils, and find the emergency tonic stash. The baskets are these ones, £13.27 from Ikea.



It's getting better, even if my baking gear does still peek out

In case you're wondering - we keep a set of small steps in the hallway, and keep things we use slightly less often up there. To be honest, it's much quicker getting things down from a box on the top of the units than out of the back of the corner cupboard.

It's a start, and it makes the kitchen feel much less cluttered. But there is more to come.

Census, roast chicken, and taking stock

Yesterday evening, while a chicken roasted in the oven, the husband and I sat down with glasses of alcoholic ginger beer (if you haven't tried it, do - it's wonderful) and pens to fill out the census.

We did it the old-fashioned way, with pen and paper, because I'd already spent the whole day at the computer doing chores, and he'd been at work. Anyway, it felt more of an occasion doing it on paper, and there was more continuity with the people who presumably did it in our flat when it was first built, ten censuses ago. Must go and find out more about them some day.

It didn't take long, as most things didn't take much thought - although we both put we understood Scots, there was some debate about whether we spoke it, which was settled when I realised anyone who heard me try would think I was taking the piss.

Two people. Living in a flat with five rooms. Married. One cat. Me working in PR, the husband "freelance", a rather elegant way of saying "doing what he can to get by, looking for a proper job." Getting by. Happy, especially when the sun shines.

It set me to thinking where I was during the last census. At uni in Oxford. Room in college, living with parents in holidays and doing work experience, desperate to get into journalism and take over the world. Single. Slightly spoilt. Thought worried about money was not being able to go shopping that week. Making friends and discovering life. Happy, although the lows at uni have been lower than any I've discovered since.

And what will the next census bring us? Two people. More, I hope. Maybe even four? (Crosses fingers, turns round three times and spits). An extra room or two would be handy if we are four. Married, barring the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Probably a cat. Probably a different one as Bacchus is ten. I suspect I'll still be doing something PR related, I hope the husband will be back in architecture. Getting by. Happy, I hope, especially when the sun shines.

We can't know what the future brings. There's something both hopeful and melancholy about looking forward. I'm off to cuddle the cat.

I'd love to know where you were ten years ago, and where you think you'll be next time you're filling in a census - please do leave thoughts in comments.

A thousand paper cranes and thoughts for Japan

Last week we went my best friend's wedding. It was a lovely laid-back affair. She and her husband had been together 10 years and when they decided to get married they went from newly engaged to a wedding in just three months, skipping much of the traditional stress along the way.

When they first got engaged her soon-to-be in-laws suggested making 1000 paper cranes for the wedding. Apparently it's a Japanese tradition that if you fold 1000 or are given a thousand paper cranes you'll get your heart's desire. It is also said that it brings happiness and world peace. Certainly worth a small amount of effort, and a lovely thought for a wedding.

At first no one really expected to get to 1000. It was a nice idea, but more a way to decorate the venue than anything else. The husband and I decided to join in to help out and I bought enough paper to make 175.
But the morning before the wedding my friend's soon to be mother-in-law counted up. We had 1300 paper cranes. And on the day of the wedding they brightened up every room with their different jewel-like colours, strung on garlands, perched on tables, even serving as sort of wedding favours as people took them away at the end of the night. It was a charming idea and I hope it brings them a happy marriage and world peace - it couldn't happen to a nicer couple.

The husband and I sat down to make our share of the cranes together on the sofa in front of the television the week before the wedding. When we decided to help out we never imagined that we would be sat trying our inexperienced hands at the ancient Japanese art of origami while watching pictures of parts of Japan laid waste by earthquakes, tsunami and the threat of radiation.

We clearly weren't the only ones deeply affected by the pictures, nor the only people who were reminded of the tradition and wished the people of Japan could indeed get their most heartfelt wish. Someone out there has created a website with 1000 virtual paper cranes. Anyone can create one and send messages of hope. And if you want to give more practical help there are links to donate to the Red Cross. Click here to visit it.

Baking: Blondies

In a pretty inspired move for someone who doesn't know me all that well, the Husband's uncle gave me Nigella's Kitchen for Christmas. I actually whooped when I opened it, a few weeks into January (snow had disrupted the normal pattern of family present deliveries). I was delighted and touched he'd got me anything at all, let alone something I wanted so much. But although I've spent several evenings happily flicking through it, I hadn't cooked anything from it until Sunday.

I wanted to make a pile of treats for the Husband to pick at during the week. He lost his job in January, and he's so busy at home, applying for jobs and doing freelance work, as well as working shifts outside his profession to bring in regular money, that he's not brilliant at remembering to eat, let alone take breaks. But having cake in the house seems to help this. He finally finished the wodge of Christmas cake we brought back from my in-laws a couple of weeks ago and I wanted something to replace it -something that wouldn't come to any harm left in a cake tin for a few days, in the hope that it would inspire him to take a few minutes off every now and then, and something substantial enough to fill a little hole. And if I happen to have the odd one... oh well.

So when I saw the recipe for Blondies I couldn't resist. It was typical Nigella - simply written and easy to follow. I couldn't get chocolate chips in my local supermarket so had a fun few minutes chopping up bars of cooking chocolate. I didn't chop them up very finely, which meant that some of the finished blondies had HUGE chunks of chocolate in them. This was a Good Thing, so I'll do it again.

Mmmmmm

And here's the final result:

Obviously, I wanted to leave them all for The Husband. But I knew my reader(s) would need to know how they tasted. So selflessly, I had one for you - I couldn't not, especially as one crumbled as I was cutting them up.

And they're good. Lovely and sweet, chocolatey, but the oats make them substantial and means they taste ever so slightly healthy. And when they're still warm?... Excuse me, I just need to go and eat another one.

As for the Husband's final verdict? Well, yesterday, after he'd eaten his first, rapidly followed by his second, I got a text message largely made up of "mmm" and kisses. A success then.

Lunch and a little light shopping

On Saturday afternoon the Husband decided, entirely spontaneously*, that it was time take me out for lunch.

We went to Le Mouton Noir in Bruntsfield. This is the point where I have to admit I'm a bad blogger, because I'll confess I paid a lot more attention to the Husband than the lunch, so the following will have to be sparse on details and photos.

That's not to say the food wasn't fantastic. They've launched a lunch menu offering two course for £10, which is amazing value for the quality and atmosphere. We both had the same -  salmon tartar, with beetroot, and pernod soaked carrots with a lime crème fraiche to start, and pan roasted chicken supreme in mushroom, cream and tarragon sauce with roasted garlic mash. All even better than it sounds. And then a duo of crème brule - one lavender, one vanilla. Delicious!

Afterwards we headed back up the hill and called in to Morningside Makers Market. Despite the fact that it happens just a stone's throw from our flat every month, and I've so often seen the bunting and signs and longed to call in, I've always been too busy when it's on. There was a lovely range of stalls - although about half the exhibitors were selling jewellery - and plenty I'd have taken home with me if I'd been feeling flush or Christmas was coming.

But the stall that caught me - and the very first one I saw after coming through the door - was The Yarn Yard - and all my good intentions of just going for a look went out the door. The whole stall was piled with skeins of yarn in such vibrant colours, I must have picked up and petted a dozen skeins before I made my decision. I was quite proud of myself for only buying one skein of yarn. But it's a beauty - with tiny sparkly bits that the camera hasn't picked up. The second I saw it I could think of half a dozen people who would love a lace shawl made out of it. But right now, I can't imagine parting with it.

*Nothing to do with my perfectly observed impression of a screaming banshee the other day before. Of course not.

Omens

When The Husband and I first moved in together, many moons ago (well, three and a half years ago), my Aunt bought us a stephanotis as a house warming present. It had the prettiest white flowers and, as she gave it to us, she said it symbolised marital happiness.

Which meant that over the past few months, as it has been conveying its extreme displeasure and generally giving up on life, I've been a bit nervy.

This report has also been giving me cause for concern. Widely reported over the past few days, it states that the happiest couples are young, married and childless - all good so far - and have been together for less than five years. The Husband and I have been together for four years and eight months. Suddenly I've started hearing the Countdown clock in the background!

So when the stephanotis finally turned up its toes and died the other day, I decided to take action. I've binned it (or sent The Husband out to bin it - what that says about marital happiness is a whole different post) and replaced it with something with, as far as I'm aware, no symbolism attached.

In M&S I fell in love with this pretty plant in its vintage-style jug. I know if would have been far smarter of me to buy a vintage jug and a plant separately, but this wasn't planned shopping, it was M&S impulse buying while popping in for milk (um. Poppadums, actually. Oops). It's labelled a Campanula, with nothing on what type of variety it is. I can't find anything on the internet because there are so many different types - known as harebells in England and bluebells in Scotland apparently - and all have different lifespans.

But in many ways the lack of information is a good thing. I'll enjoy it while it lasts, and because I have no idea how long that's supposed to be, I won't feel guilty when it turns up its toes and dies. And at least I can reuse the jug.

Which is not a metaphor for marriage.

Springtime

Newhaven Harbour

Looking across to Fife

This weekend it felt like we'd turned a corner.

The sun shone all weekend. The sky was a deep, clear blue and the sun's rays coming through the windows made the flat sparkle and danced on the cat's whiskers.

The bulbs we planted back in November, days before the snow came, have finally started poking through. We'll have snowdrops, daffodils and tulips soon.

We went out for fish and chips at Newhaven and took a walk along the front, and out to the lighthouse, where I took these pictures looking across to Fife and back to Newhaven.

The darkness is lifting. It felt like a weekend of new beginnings, and of old things coming back to life.

Time to perfect a pickle recipe

Yes, I know I've been quiet. I'm well aware that my poor, neglected blog has spent more time ignored than attended to in its short life.

The past few months have been difficult - not proper, life-changingly hard, but difficult. Work stuff. And then spending happy evenings writing job applications and interview presentations demonstrating my creativity and writing ability. Strange how boasting about such things saps the will to actually use 'em.

But all the hard work has paid off, and before I start my exciting new job (no, I won't be saying anything about that one either, on account of wanting to keep it), I have a few weeks off, in which I can do anything I like.

Heavenly. I'm still planning to keep largely to the rhythms of a working day - starting with breakfast with the Husband in the mornings (although I'm going back to bed for an hour with a cup of tea, Radio Four and my knitting quite often - my definition of heaven) and having normal after work evenings with him most of the time.

But in between, the world is my oyster. And I have plans. I'm going to knit and read more, potter round the kitchen a bit, see friends (rather than just throwing the house keys at Blonde and her Best Mate when they come to stay and telling them where the gin lives, I'll be able to pour - and enjoy - the G&Ts. Or Gs&T, as she would no doubt style them), do some sewing, finish little fun jobs around the flat, and do some more exercise. And write ridiculously long sentences. And blog.

Yesterday, I went for lunch with a friend and her baby. We talked about my holiday, and I outlined all the things I wanted to do. She laughed, and said I had time to perfect a pickle recipe. I've never heard the phrase before, but I love it - it sums up everything I'm excited about. For the first time in so long I have time to myself, to devote to whatever I want, and right now, I want to concentrate on the purely domestic. When the holiday is over, I know I'll be desperate to get back to work and be a career woman again - but until then, I have a chance to relax and slow down. I might even try making pickle.