In Good Company

Every time I go back to my home town of Wolverhampton, I look forward to seeing the school girls. These are friends whom I have known since the age of 11, and together we lived through pre-ghd hairstyles, dreadful boyfriends, and several years of PE in ‘navy pants.’ 

Nowadays it seems as natural to discuss the bank’s base rate as it does the best place to get your foundation. Anyway, you know you’re getting on when one of you says:

“Look at that girl without a coat.

For the record she also didn’t seem to be sporting much of a skirt.

Does she not realise it’s November?

Longing look at bare arms.

Remember when we didn't wear coats?”

Much hilarity was enjoyed. In fact, we almost certainly ruined the Friday night dinner of several couples with our raucous behaviour.

I thought I’d share my highlights.

On Parking.

Friend 1: “You know I’m a bit worried about my car.”

Friend 2: “Why’s that?”

Friend 1: “Well I parked it somewhere that said ‘clamping in operation.’"

Friend 2: “why did you do that?”

Friend 1: “ well I was driving to my work’s car park, but then someone else’s work car park was nearer, so I just dumped it there.”

Friend 2: “Right.”

Friend 1: “Yes and the sign said clamping was in operation – but what kind of clamper works on a Friday night? It’ll be fine.”

Friend 2: “This sounds worryingly like the time you parked in the bay reserved for charging an electric car in Birmingham.”

Friend 1: Laughs “Oh god”

Friend 2: “Yes you had 2 lovely tickets for that one.”

Friend 1: “You know I remember that I couldn’t believe my luck getting such a good parking spot. I’d been driving for ages and it was so convenient.”

Friend 2: “Wasn’t there a sign?”

Friend 2: “Turns out yes. And a big, well, flashing plug. I thought how handy it was to have an emergency i-phone charger in the carpark.”

I am pleased to report that the evening passed without a clamping or ticketing incident.

On being born in the 1990s.

Friend 1: “My ex has got a new girlfriend.”

Friend 2: “Oh no, I’m sorry love.”

Friend 1: “No, it’s fine. Well, it’s not fine, but I wrote a poem about it today.”

Friend 2: “A poem?”

Friend 1: “Yes.”

Friend 2: “Dare I ask, what about?”

Friend 1: “Well her twitter name game me a clue about her date of birth.”

Friend 2: “You’re stalking her on twitter?”

Friend 1: “Not stalking no. Researching.”

Friend 2: “Oh that’s alright then.”

Friend 1: “I know. Anyway. Turns out, she’s young.”

Friend 2: “Uhuh.”

Friend 1: “Yes, so the title is ‘Born in the 90s.”

Friend 2: “Have you ever thought you might have missed your calling as a feminist beat poet?”

Friend 1: “Now you mention it….”

So if you were in Made in Thai in Wolverhampton on Friday night, that was what we were all laughing at.

And if you weren't, you can read about what happened on one of our previous meet ups here.

Shhh, I'm writing

I must apologise for the radio silence. You see, I've been a bit busy.

Somewhere on my list of ‘things to do in life’ it said Write a novel. This was something I had always dreamed of doing. Whether or not the thing ever got published, I saw it as a ‘must do,’ up there with owning a campervan and finding the time to make a patchwork quilt.

But it was a distant and far off whim, what with a full time job and seemingly full time housework standing firmly in my way.

Well, that was until my arm was twisted to participate in a little known movement called Nanowrimo. Although it’s not little known to the 200,000 or so participants who right this moment are typing, plotting, setting the scene and killing off their heroines. You see, Nanowrimo challenges you to write a 50k word novel in the month of November. And I’m a fully signed up member. 

National Novel Writing Month is well underway; in fact terrifyingly we’re almost half way through.

I didn't give nearly enough time to plotting, keep having to remind myself what I've called various characters and am easily distracted by twitter, but I’m writing, and although I am behind the target, my current word count sits at over 8,000.

Will I finish in time? I’m not sure – but I’m certainly going to give it a bash. According to the Nanowrimo website I need to write 2,175 words a day to hit the 50,000, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a plot twist to pen.

And maybe in December I’ll get started on that quilt.

On Romance: Conversations with the Boyfriend

Champ

Watching Match of the day, relaxing.

The Boyfriend: You know, I’d give up Champ for you. 

*please note Champ is Championship Manager, a football computer game.

Me: Bloody hell, that’s big.

Long pause

The Boyfriend: Actually, I may have been a bit hasty there.

Me: What? So you wouldn’t give up Champ for me?

The Boyfriend: No. But I’d say that I would.

Long pause

Me: Thanks.

----------------------------------

‘Hilarity’

Watching tv dieting show, relaxing

Man on tv show to lady dieting: So your current weight is 31 stone.

The Boyfriend: Rach you’re no-where near that. 

For more Conversations with The Boyfriend click here

Hunting for supper

I love it when a simple walk turns into adventure. And food adventure is my favourite kind. So imagine my delight when, on a wander along the Water of Leith, I see blackberries growing in the shrubbery. Am I about to forage? I think I am.

Wild Blackberries in the shrubbery

The Boyfriend was on hand to throw himself head-first into the task. Not content with the blackberries growing right by the path, he insisted on scaling the bank. And on my taking his picture. Typical. 

Action shot

A bit of effort and a few thorny cuts (the Boyfriend told me to 'man up' at every thorny yelp) and we had a small bag full of ripe blackberries.

Urban foraging

Just the perfect ingredient for a crumble, wouldn't you say?

So a bit of sugar, butter and flour, the addition of an apple and a squeeze of lemon later, and we had ourselves a crumble. And all the sweeter it tasted for having harvested the fruit ourselves down by the river.

Blackberry crumble and cream

And as we finished the last morsels, I suddenly wondered if I hadn't got ahead of myself in all this foraging excitement. Were wild blackberries even edible? Oh crap. 

Next time I'll be googling first, but you'll be glad to know, we've survived.

For more information about foraging wild blackberries, here's a handy link. Found moments after I'd licked the bowl clean.

Technology fail

I have suffered a great loss. My 8 month old iPhone died. Apparently a leaking bottle of gin and an iPhone mixeth not.

It made an unpleasing electrical buzzing sound and even time spent in a bowl of rice (is this some kind of urban myth?) did not revive it. Neither did sealing it in an airtight container with silica gel. Nor a stint in the airing cupboard.

Ironically I was unable to google other options.

Thus I’m on the emergency phone. A Samsung slide-screen. Who needs 3G, internet connection or apps? I’ve got Bluetooth. 

It’s liberating being unable to check your emails immediately on waking. You do not miss the stiff thumb one gets from smart-phone-scrolling. And I can’t remember how to text by pressing letters, which is doing wonders for my phone bill.

Anyway, the release of the iPhone 5 means that my (broken) phone has been rendered obsolete.  So I might stick just with my ten year old Samsung.

After all, it doesn’t have an expensive intel core-processor that’s teetotal.

2050: not a moment too soon

I have become someone who only blogs about housework. Forgive me.

But god, when did cleaning start taking up such a high percentage of my life? Barely an evening goes by where something does not require hovered or cleaned or anti-bacteria-ed. The Boyfriend lives in blissful ignorance of the home the woodlice are making under our radiator, or the darkening rim in the bath, or the fact the oven needs cleaning.

It must be a happy world he inhabits.

A world where dirty washing reappears cleaned in wardrobes, the toilet magically smells of pine, and you have no interaction whatsoever with a toilet brush.

Let me be clear, The Boyfriend certainly does not think that cleaning is woman’s work, rather he does not see the mess. And when I point it out, usually with bottle of bleach in hand, a crazed expression on my face, and my voice a full octave above the usual pitch that I am,

 ‘fed up, sick of cleaning, is this really what you think I want to do in an evening? Yes I do feel put upon? Oh my god is that MOULD, this house is a TIP, how can you not see the crumbs everywhere? How have you got the new bin dirty?’ 

… He is usually quick to grab the hoover in a show of solidarity.

But I know that I am not alone. Worse still, change is hard to come by, and a study from Oxford University has found that men are unlikely to be doing an equal share of the vacuuming, dusting and washing up much before 2050. 2050. I’ll have retired. That is if retiring is still a concept in 40 years.

But he does try.

The Boyfriend: “I checked the laundry to see if it could be put away, but it seems to be getting damper.”

Me: “No love. That’ll be because that’s a new load.”

The Boyfriend: “ah.”

2050 you say? It’ll be here sooner than we think.

Am I a dreamer

I saw this wonderful sign today and it got me thinking. 

Am I dreaming or taking action? 

Which of these people are you?