a quacktastic weekend

On our way to Shute Barton (more in a minute) on Saturday, we almost ran over a dozen little ducklings running aimlessly in a little team all over the road.  There was no sign of their Mum, so we turned around and drove back with ill-conceived thoughts of a duckling rescue.

Seemingly, a couple of other motorists had similar ideas, as between us, we stopped traffic completely on one side and two chappies and myself herded panicked baby quacklets into the hedgerow where we scooped them up, passed them to Mark stood on high on a bank and er, tossed them into the neighbouring field.  One of the blighters was comically waddling off, at some bloody speed it has to be said, down the road so I had to leg it after it.  Had a bit of a scare that after committing myself to chasing it in front of an audience that I wouldn't be able to match it's pace and I would be exposed as a failed Townie Huntress.  Ducklings are surprisingly easy to catch.  And very sweet, and very tiny.  As there was an adult duck flying around I have dreamy hopes they were reunited and have lived happily ever after.  A lady shouted 'good job guys' from her car window with the thumbs up, and the whole little episode left me feeling happy and heart-warmed that sometimes people do still give a shit and will put themselves out to collectively do some good. 

So, with dirty hands and aglow with the milk of human kindness we pressed on to Shute Barton.  This place is only open four weekends a year, and by guided tour only.  Personally I like guided tours, as you do learn more, but it is hard going sometimes what with the pedigree of every beam and brick being pointed out.  When not having its innards gawped at by tourists, the house is let out by the NT for £3000 per week to up to 10 guests.  'Tis nicely done. 

 

 

 

 

Here we are, a little slimmer I like to think than we were after Christmas.

Since Friday I have been trying to knit socks, ably assisted by this aggressive American chick.  So far my success has begun and ended with the purchase of wool and needles, as my attempts to cast on 40 stitches have now reached double figures and undertaken with the fierce concentration of someone studying for a degree in astrophysics.  I have empty needles and a crossly crumpled pattern to show for my efforts, but I will give it another go when I have an empty house and four hours to spare.  Ha ha. 

Cooked this egg curry on Saturday night.  Sorry the pic is blurred.  I was under pressure because my very hungry and impatient husband was stood behind me tapping his foot and tutting as only he knows how.  It was spookily good, and not at all the seriously bad wind-giver I feared it might be.

Fasting continues and I have now lost 9lbs since 22nd April.  I am now at my lightest weight and fast approaching the stage where I get bored with the relentless necessity of calorie patrol.   Blimey, it's only been a month and I've had enough already.  Staying power is not really my thing, clearly.  I am however really pleased that the jeans I had to undo in order to eat my lunch comfortably are now needing to be pulled in by my belt for a good fit.  I have also taken to regular plods round the block again - much easier on my hips and knees at over half a stone lighter.  Yesterday I went twice around and still didn't collapse on the pavement afterwards from respiratory arrest.  It is a good, good feeling.  As Janet Dibley likes to say in the very hilarious Fat Friends:  'Nothing tastes as good as thin feels'.  She is more than probably right, but life is short my friends,  and there are many calories to get through. 

I have spent the last two weeks buying clothes in chocolate brown, navy and apricot, with scarves in orange and red.  As silver is apparently not the colour jewellery for me (gutted) and fake gold looks veeerrrrry shiny and tacky, I have gone for bronze-y stuff.  To this end this caught my eye on ebay:

Which, when it arrived, is approximately the size of a mobile phone.  I threw my head back and howled with laughter.  Again, I have fallen foul of paying heed to measurement when buying on line.  All is not lost however, as it does look ok.  I think.  Although Mark did snigger and say 'twit twOOOOOO' when I got in the car on Saturday wearing said amulet. 


Sunday saw us giving this a go:

Which I found all terribly complicated and involved much rule-reading.  It's so old that the rules talk about the money in terms of  guineas and shillings.  Flip.  As if I weren't confused enough.  I think it's me - I am getting denser by the bloody day.  But an enjoyable family afternoon nonetheless.

I have had a hankering for a Barbour jacket since last Wednesday.  My well-heeled friend at work wears one and this has immediately appealed to my sense of being easily influenced.  I spotted this one (new with tags and all) on ebay. (I love you ebay):

Which is in my colour range, and I wanted it to be mine.  But I missed the end of the auction, and it sold for £77.  Which is a bona fide bargain in Barbour world.  Ironically, I missed the end of the auction because I was covering a shift for the friend who is the Barbour-wearer whilst earning the money to pay for the bloody thing.  Meh.

The weekend was topped off nicely with the remains of a rather nice prosecco whilst watching Dr Who from the comfort of the sofa on my kindle.  Which I didn't understand.  At all.  In fact, reading back over this post it seems I have spent the last three days in a spaced out dream not knowing what the fuck is going on.  With anything. 

Tripping along happily in a world of my own: 8    Firing on all cylinders: nil.

I blame the lack of calories.

being done, in more ways than one.

I have been ticked off for lack of posts, so, suitably chastised, here I am.

I have been meaning to blog, because I want to bore the tits off you all with tales of calories, but I have been distracted by the thrills of my high-octane lifestyle. 

Not.

So - fasting.  The 5/2 diet.  Hmmmmmmmmmm.   I am 'doing it', although I feel a bit at sea with it as I am currently signed up for Rosemary Conley,  and when I go along to weigh in I feel a bit of a fraud as it isn't strictly down to that particular diet as the reason I am losing weight.  Although on my non-fast days I am still stringent on calorie consumption, and do not stray over 2000 for the day.  I find fast days ok, as I tend to do them when I am working in the evenings, and therefore not distracted by the 'bugger me I need a drink' Demon.  Coming home at bedtime sure helps the whole process along.  And I weigh a whole two pounds lighter after each fast day.  My next weigh-in is Thursday, and I should have added to my 6 pound loss by then.  Or else. 

Yesterday I had my colours 'done'.  Or rather, I attended a colour analysis session with an image consultant.  I don't know if I mentioned it before, but I have wanted to do this for quite a long time.  It is judged a girly pursuit, and therefore deemed 'not up my street' by anyone I have spoken to about this, but as I am a secret girl, I was very excited yesterday morning when I woke up. 

An article in a local mag led me to a House Of Colour consultant, and, buoyed up with the frustration of fruitless clothes shopping, I booked an appointment. 

It is a shocker to be faced with staring at yourself in a mirror with your hair covered and your body swathed in white whilst varying coloured scarves are draped around you to determine a colour palette.  I found it fascinating to note how very obvious it is that certain colours do nothing but drain and dull your face and how others immediately lighten and enliven.  Amazing.  All colours are blue-based (winter and summer palette) or yellow based (autumn and spring palette).  I am no colour-scientist, but there is a very visible difference between a cold shade and a warm shade of the same colour.  If you know what I mean.  Not sure I am making any sense, but anyways,  turns out I am a soft autumn.  And very pleased about it too, as these are shades I have always drifted towards, but 'grown away from' in later years. 

 

Whilst I will not be extravagant enough to bin my entire wardrobe as 'wrong', I will not be seeking to add to the colours which do me no favours, and instead will focus entirely on shades I know will make the best of my skin tone. 

Fab. 

Today has seen the arrival of the new Pokémon set of cards - Plasma Freeze.  Wa-hey.  Apparently.  Oliver has been banging on for a while about this set - being released 'pre nats'  (before the Pokémon National annual competition for those of us not fluent in poke-talk).  Out of saved pocket money and an amount we have stumped up towards his birthday present (which falls just after the 'nats'),it is still an eye-watering amount of dosh. 

He is still without the cards he absolutely essentially definitely must have, even after opening a box of 360 cards, and Mark and I are feeling a tad bum-sore after being royally shafted by Pokémon Inc. 

Moving swiftly on to something I actually do believe very worth the money - The National Treasure that is The National Trust.  On Monday, an unusually fine and glorious Bank Holiday in these parts, we went along to Barrington Court with Mark's sister and family.  It was my dear SiL's special birthday, and it was lovely to do something with them. 

A few piccies, but this is one of the best bits of the NT properties - the land and feeling of space around them.

And I love to see these two at play.

hooking and cooking

Lets start with something going well:

I am well chuffed with how this is shaping up.  It seems that the previous bunching-up problem was easily resolved by simply reading and following the pattern correctly.  Duh. 

Now let's move on to the yawntastic topic of - dieting.   YAAAAWWWwwwn.

Last weekend, once more,  I reached tipping point and trundled off to a Rosemary Conley class to stave off the extra half a stone which has become my unwanted friend.  Really, I shouldn't be surprised that a noticeable and defiant decrease in exercise and a steady increase in wine and cakes should be a-showing on the old tum, but it leaves me heavy-hearted to part with over twenty quid a month and count calories in a little black book for weeks on end.

It works, course it does - less intake and exercise upping is bound to do the job, but it's dull, and an anal topic of conversation because that's all you want to talk about to any poor sod who lends an ear.  But at the end of it, my jeans will hang a little, and not need undoing sat in a restaurant like they did last weekend before I could shovel in the next course.  Ahem.....

Yesterday I was reading in the sunday papes about the 5:2 diet - you know,  the one that's the latest thing in diets, and wondering if I could give it a whirl.  I have nothing to lose - I'm already bloody calorie counting anyway, in for a penny and all that.  I was previously put off because it contains the word 'fasting' for two days, and images of hippy-fied well-intentioned students all living off of a cup of water for 48 hours sprung to mind and scared the living bejaysus out of me. 

At present, I am working off of a 1500 calorie day diet, supposedly everything being under 5% fat with a few exceptions.  It's certainly do-able, and a piece of piss without having to take wine into consideration, but the idea of two days of 500 calories (gulp) and then five days of 2000 calories makes me feel insanely cheerful. 

According to research, fasting is a good thing with many benefits to the body, which I will not bore you with here, but appeal to me big-time.  You could read more absolutely fascinating facts here.

Sue blogged about it here, too.

So today is my first fast day.  It is 1pm and so far today, I have consumed 2 cups of coffee with milk , and 3 apricots.  Whoop-di-doo-dah.  And at the moment, I feel pleasantly hungry.  It is much, much easier to do this knowing I only have to make it til the end of the day.  Porridge and latte for brekkie tomorrow.  I have just been to Sainsburys and purchased 6 tubs of their soup, just for fast day purposes.  I have done a bit of recipe searching and I know I can rustle up a cauldron of soup for about 3 calories, so that's a-brewing I can tell ye.  And I have bullied Mark into giving this a go too.  Feel a bit worried that 600 calories with a fairly physical job may not be sufficient, but he is pretty gung ho, so we shall see.

Will report back.

Provided I haven't eaten the keyboard by then.

As oop north as it goes

We are returned from a weekend break in North Devon. 

We did a bit of this

 

and a bit of that

and a bit of the other.

Arlington Court*

We were doing pretty much the self-same things this time last year too.  Nothing like a bit of routine.

Whilst partaking in a bit of this in Ilfracombe,  I spotted a Colossus in the harbour:

Astonished, I yelled over to Mark 'where did that come from - it wasn't here last year was it??!'  He confirmed I was not mental and had missed it last year whilst strolling harbour side.  It looked huge from high on the 7th tee, so goodness knows how big it was up close and personal. 

So we went down to take a look.  It was quite amazing to behold and, as predicted, incredibly large.  (taller than the Angel Of The North from base to sword tip, apparently).  And weird.  There was no information available on what it was all about and so we had to content ourselves with waiting til we got home to do a spot of Internet research.

It is called 'Verity', and is by Damien Hirst, quelle surprise.  Seemingly he owns a restaurant locally and the statue is on loan for 20 years to the people of Ilfracombe.  50% of whom think it grotesque and an eyesore in this Victorian seaside town.  Interesting, velly intelesting.  Personally I think it is quite magnificent and certainly a talking point for the town which is, quite frankly, a bit run down and dead-end.  I think it is supposed to have the effect of increasing tourism, but the people of Ilfracombe seem pretty ungrateful and short sighted about it.  If the calibre of its people at the top end of town is anything to go by, the influx of normal people to the town should be welcomed as a blessing and a Godsend.  ('... so I got 120 hours f***ing community service' was the phrase I overheard a callow youth bellowing to his cretinous sidekicks outside a local pub).

I read some of the comments posted on the Internet about Verity at the time of her arrival, and some dipstick had expressed an opinion that the statue would 'encourage teenage pregnancy'.   Seriously??  If anything, a good butcher's at an exposed bronzed foetus would make any normal young girl think twice would it not??  However, we are talking about a special kind of mentality here....

 

On an aside,  yesterday was our Fourteenth wedding anniversary.  We don't exchange gifts for this, but he bought me these:

Thereby putting me in the position of being a bit of a taker, so I offered a full body massage (all above board, you mucky pups) which roughly translates to a wipe down with an oily rag in front of the telly at 10.30pm.  I am an aromatherapy fan and make up oils on a regular basis, but I currently have no carrier oil (veg/almond oil) in the house.  Having offered said massage, I had to come good, so resorted to making up an oil with bergamot and olive oil.  This turned out to be a bit of a mistake, as olive oil is too viscous (think that's the right word) and too strong in smell.  It was like sleeping next to a fried cup of earl grey tea and gave me weird dreams.

Laters.

* Arlington Court did not have a mug in the shop.  My NT mug collection is scuppered already.  I gave the shop assistant a look on the way out.  That'll learn her.

an altercation

This morning I trundled along to Sainsburys to check the tyre pressures on the car.  I know.  I do this, but it should be a boy's job as it involves bending down in an ungainly fashion in front of people to squat at dirty tyres and fumble about with dirty dust caps whilst wrestling an ugly dance around the car with a rubber hose.   Anyhoo, this done, Oliver asked if we could go in the car wash.  I feebly argued no - a dirty car is the least of my worries in the big picture of things, but gave in as I just couldn't be arsed to eventually be forced to have to do it manually myself and went off to purchase said wash. 

When I came out, about two and a half minutes later, a queue of three cars had formed behind me (where there was previously none in sight) and a man (we'll call him Mr Peeves, and as he was older than me we'll call him Old Mr Peeves) was waiting by my car to inform me, in no uncertain terms, that I could have moved out of the way whilst I went into the kiosk, and I was inconsiderate blah blah blah, to which I took exception.

Firstly, this is a garage which lacks 'pull over space' as it is set into a 'bowl' with one narrow way in - and one narrow way out.  Secondly, there was no-one waiting behind me when I went in to the kiosk, and thirdly - WTF??!  I was stunned that he thought it OK to get out of his car and confront me in such a manner when what I had 'done' was pretty innocuous.  So I waved my arms about and yelled a bit, temper rising by the second, and when he carried on moaning, complaining and gesticulating,  I yelled 'oh bugger off' at the top of my voice, got in the car and slammed the door.  Then, seeing poor Oliver's astonished and upset face it occurred to me the man may have spoken to him through the open car windows before I had got back.  He confirmed that the man did, in fact ask where I was.  My rage went stellar.  I leapt out of the car, marched over yelling 'hey - hey - HEY - did you SPEAK to my child???????' He got out of the car spluttering confirmation.  I was so incensed I screeched 'don't you speak to my child - DON'T you speak to my child how DARE you - you do NOT speak to him!'  It was very loud, there was much angry finger pointing, and a red mist. 

Gawd almighty.

It was not one of my finer moments. 

I am very disappointed with myself.  I am angry with Old Mr Peeves, because I don't really think I did anything unreasonable enough to warrant a face-to-face ticking off,  but I am so upset at how badly I expressed myself, and I don't think I did Oliver any favours at all flying off the handle like that. I truly gave no thought to anyone or anything other than venting the overwhelming anger that I felt.

In summary: Could do better.

what do you mean you need a break from the old routine??

I have to say I am enormously glad the Easter holidays are over. 

Not only am I grateful for the return of quiet and order in public places and the meandering routine of our day-to-day lives, but I am overwhelmingly relieved that I don't have to make any more sodding arrangements to 'catch up' with people I only see during school holidays because their offspring are normally a l'ecole. 

Every day for two weeks I have had to be clock-watching and ferrying Oliver around to a) take him to Easter tennis club, b) have the house partially socially acceptable for visits or,  worse, c) meet up with people at varying locations (yuk, yuk).  These things I do for my boy.  To be fair, they are not all unbearable and a few are even driven by me.  Still, come last Thursday I was coveting a day at home.  A day spent in my joggers with unkempt hair and smelly pits watching Masterchef on catch up and letting Oliver just be and do.

On Wednesday night I ended up in a filthy row with my brother who insisted I had agreed to look after his son for the entire day on Thursday starting at 7.30am.  No friggin' way jose.  For the record, this was a loose arrangement floated into the ether on Sunday morning with the proviso 'let me know'.  I always say 'let me know' for two reasons.  Firstly I like to know in advance what time I need to be up and at 'em, and secondly, no-one, but no-one turns up on my doorstep unbooked.  I do not like it, I do not encourage it.  This of course excludes telephone warnings up to 15 minutes in advance - I can bear those.  And I do like company on occasion - I am not a complete social reject.  So this is how I know that I did not leave things that he could just rock up sans warning on Thursday morning at the crack of a sparrow's fart leaving me a ten year old for the day.  Cripes alive.  Cue much yelling and an upset child.  (not mine, but the guilt kept me awake that night).  I managed to salvage a soupcon of everybody's happiness by picking him up for a few hours in the afternoon - with a definite start time, and a definite finish time.  Ha ha. 

So, yesterday was welcomed with very wide and open arms.  This week Oliver is starting a term of tennis at the University.  We have an indoor tennis centre there (hitherto unknown in these here parts) but parking there is a bastard and I am dreading the weekly argy bargy in the undersized car park jostling with four hundred other parents for one of twenty spaces while they drop off/pick up Tarquin and Pippa for/from their lesson.  This horror aside, I have toyed with the idea of going along to the 'adult drop in tennis' while Oliver transmutes into a Wimbledon champion at his class.

I made a tentative enquiry to a very sporty looking sort at the front desk - what sort of standard turn up to the adult session, that sort of thing, to which he flashed his very many white teeth at me and started banging on about matchplay.  What I actually heard was 'dkfjsldfj  jadjk,  ajkdfdf -jaljlasd'.  My fear and confusion must have been apparent, as he then kindly slipped back into english and told me about the adult coffee morning tennis instead.  Clearly my grey powdered curls and bi-focals left him in no doubt that I was not going to be up to matchplay any time soon.  I know when I am beat.  Think I might slip along on a Friday morning for a touch of 'adult starters' - surely even I can manage that?

In crochet 'news', of which there is not much to report, I am still crocheting circles and more circles for the blanket which I may or may not gift to my brother.  I braved the 'join as you go' method, which took me an embarrassing length of time to master (and I use the term 'master' very loosely here) but I am still not convinced it is quite right as it looks rather like a four year old has cobbled them together with a set of plastic needles free with Girl's Stuff weekly.

Which is uncanny, because that is exactly the look I am going for.  Ha ha.

I have unpicked more rounds than I have left standing.  Join as you go, my arse.  That's what I say.

Hmmmmmm.

Close, but no cigar.

Is how I would describe my latest efforts dans la cuisine. 

The bean chilli will not be making a re-appearance in it's 10 bean state, that's all I can say.  They did indeed look a beauteous sight post-soaking - full of health, vitamins and promise.  The fully cooked ones looked a little dull, and some of the little blighters were still hard.  Goodness knows how.  They must have a kryptonite core, as they boiled and simmered their little hearts out for what felt like years. 

Anyhoo, we both ate some and lived to tell the tale.  As I left it out in the pot overnight I am too afraid of imaginary bacterial growth and potential gastro diseases to freeze it now, so I am ashamed to say I threw it away.  As for dried beans: I am going the tinned route next time, or cooking and freezing in advance as per advice offered.

In summary:  it was alright.  Nuff said. 

Moooving on.

Today we took a National Trust Trip Out.  As per, it was pissing freezing with a nasty wind nipping up your nether regions, but we went to a luverly place - Knightshayes Court.  And, as per, photographs inside were punishable by hanging, so I only have these to offer:

Oliver actually got to take his coat off here, so think the midday sun must have made an appearance, bringing the outside temperature to a balmy 3 degrees centigrade.

 

 

Imagine walking out through your back door to be faced with this.  It really gives such a sense of freedom and space.

 

Fancied a collection of NT mugs - starting with this one.  I am hoping that all other NT places do them as I visit, or it will be a very select collection indeed.

 

 

Tonight we are having sausages for tea.  I can cook them.