I Love Nora Ephron

I've been ill in bed for two days now, and I must admit, they are probably the best two days I've enjoyed consecutively since I went to Barcelona with my sister last year.  That particular trip followed several bad days leading on from my birthday which I'd rather not talk about.  Yes I know it was me that brought it up in the first place, but still, in case you were thinking of mentioning it, I'm just saying, I'd rather you didn't.
It probably seems a bit odd that I should be enjoying what ought to be a mind-numbing, self-pitying period of illness-induced confinement to my bed, but in actual fact it's been rather nice.  Ok, here it is, the reason why I'm particularly perky despite my malady - it's all because of Nora Ephron. Revisiting the 'birthday' which should not be mentioned, for said 'birthday', I was the ungrateful recipient of a big fat hardback, The Most of Nora Ephron. The last time I read a book this big was probably during the heady days of o-levels when I had time and patience to lose myself in my joy of reading. There was little revision that summer, as I recall, but many happy days spent in the back garden, sprawled on a blanket on the grass, reading anything OTHER than the books I was supposed to be reading, which as far as I was concerned were a little too dull for my extravagant tastes. I think that once I'd finished all the Mills and Boon paperbacks in Barkingside library I ventured onto hardbacks covering such diverse subjects as ; analyzing your dreams, how to become a journalist and how to be an illustrator as well as quite a few Daphne du Maurier's who I fell in love with after I saw the film, The Frenchman's Creek. Heady days!
These days the only hardbacks I manage to peruse are usually penned by such literary names as Delia or Nigella. It's life, I suppose. Who has time to read these days? Exactly.  Which is why it's been such a joy, such a nostalgic visit to my misspent youth, just to lay in bed and read a whole book. And not just any old book, but a Nora Ephron book - I love Nora Ephron. And even better, I get sympathy and food brought to me at regular intervals. It's just like being sixteen again, but even better! No exams at the end of it ...

Neighbours

Just to be clear, I'm not talking about the Australian soap - does it even exist anymore? I could digress here, and take a little trip down memory lane, and talk about the days when Neighbours the tv show was a brand new phenomenon, showing us that a window into so-called ordinary people's lives didn't have to take place in a pub amidst rows of red-bricked terraced houses with back yards and inclement weather, or even in  a pub amidst stone cottages and farms and inclement weather, but instead in the golden Australian sunshine, where people smiled and sung, some even carving out a rather successful career later on - yes Kylie, with the unnaturally firm buttocks, I'm talking about you.

However, instead I will stick to the intended subject here - Neighbours. In the concise Oxford English Dictionary, definition 2b is as follows;  a fellow human being, esp. as having claims on friendship. So more than just a person who happens to live next to or near to us.  The thing with neighbours, like families, is that you can't choose them.  It's a lottery and you generally get what you're given, unless you're very very rich and can choose not to have any at all - like Kylie, or the Queen.

So, since I am neither the Queen, nor Kylie (with the unnaturally firm buttocks), I have neighbours.  Or, to be more precise, I did have neighbours. Until they moved out.  I will probably get some new ones soon. But quite frankly, I'd rather have the old ones back.  I liked them.  And against all probability, and quite by chance, we became friends - enjoying chats over the garden fence, sharing cooking apples from our tree, and even sharing recipes.  And this is where it all gets tricky.  You see, for me, sharing recipes is a commitment to something far greater than passing acquaintances and chats over the fence.  It is bonding in the most profound sense.  I would not share recipes with just anyone, you know.  It would be like sharing my most secret of secrets, baring my soul even.  A little over-dramatic? Maybe. But trust me, if you've ever tasted Marlena'sApple Jablcznik you'd know what I'm talking about. And I would hope she'd agree having tasted my apple almond pudding, my Norwegian apple cake or even my apple crumble.

Sadly our days of chatting over the fence, or on the front doorstep are over, but hopefully we'll continue to share apples and recipes for a long time to come.  And in the meantime, whoever you are, future neighbour, I hope we will like each other even half as much. In the words of the poetic theme tune, 'Neighbours, everybody needs good neighbours'. And on that note, I must go now, it's almost  time for my drumming group to arrive, and then I need to cut the grass - I find it always helps me sleep if I'm suffering with a little insomnia. Oh, and those floors need sanding too ... welcome to our street. I hope you'll be just as happy as we are!

A Quick Rant About Bureaucracy

I rather like this planet. I think we should all be doing our bit to preserve it. I recycle as much as I can. Actually, strictly speaking, I recycle as much as my so-called Recycling centre will allow. Which isn't a lot.
Actually, maybe it is a lot. But the things that I generally want to get rid of, like old bits of plasterboard or dried up tins of paint which I kept in case I needed to touch up a bit of wall at some later date but never did and actually didn't put the lid on properly so it got a two inch skin on it and is all but useless now anyway, they refuse to accept, in a rather patronizing manner which makes me feel like a cross between a naughty school girl and a criminal mastermind. We're not allowed to accept it, they inform me without a hint of apology or remorse. It says it on the gate, they add, like that should make me feel better. It doesn't.
You have to go to a main recycling centre, they tell me. Where's that then, I say. Sixteen miles away, they reply. What! I reply with indignation. There is another one, they add. Where? I say. Fifty two miles away. You Are Joking, I bellow in disbelief. They stare at me in a way that tells me they're not. Other people are now looking at me. Possibly in admiration or else in fear. I don't blame them. If I saw a ranting mad woman brandishing three 12 inch square pieces of plasterboard, I too might feel alarmed.
I feel a sense of fury and despair.
I am so angry I could cry. So I do. I just wanted to put my pathetic little scraps of plasterboard in the waste to landfill bin. That's all. It's not too much to ask is it? I do consider punching the most patronising of them, but I don't suppose that's allowed either.
The despair quickly follows.  Where will it end, I wonder, in a possibly overly dramatic fashion. I am reminded of a book my son had when he was small - Mrs Lather's Laundry. One day, she gets so fed up with doing everyone's laundry, she puts up a sign on the door - we wash anything except laundry.
I expect that next time I go to the recycling centre there will be a new sign on the gate; We Recycle Anything Except Your Rubbish.
You read it it here first.

Birthday Resolutions

It was my birthday yesterday.  And if there's anyone out there sending birthday wishes now that I've told you, I thank you most heartily.  But I have to say, as each year passes, it seems that the spin about age and 'it's only a number', blah, blah, blah is wearing a little thin.  And the truth of the matter is, it's not just the superficial that is beginning to worry me - you know, the lines that you can see even in low light. the cellulite that is valiantly resisting all attempts to obliterate it, and the fact that without a  doubt, you (or I) will never look thirty again, or even forty. But that's not the worst of it.  It is beginning to dawn on me that time is ticking on and that I am accumulating an ever-increasing to do list, and if I don't crack on with it quick smart then I may not get through it, or by the time I have the time, I'll have given up caring anyway.  Or worse still, I'll be old and decrepit and become one of those bitter old bags who regrets all the things she never did with her life.
So what is the solution?  Well, the way I see it I have two options;
Number one: I stop procrastinating and get on with it.
Number two - burn the list, forget about it, eat some cake and go back to looking at vintage mirrors on Ebay.
As tempting as I find Number two I have realized one other thing about growing older.  The truth is, with age does come a bit of wisdom, and self awareness - whether we like it or, and whether we acknowledge it or not.
And so, I choose Number one.  I choose life and living it.  We only get one after all, and it might be short so what's the point of wasting it? So bye bye, I'm off. To go and do one thing that will make a difference. And even thought it may not be your birthday, and you may not have a list of your own, perhaps today's the day to follow your dreams too.So good luck, good bye and have a most fabulous day!

I'm Better With Cake than Computers

I've spent the best part of two days trying to write my blog.  Not because of writers block, or broadband problems.  I can't even blame the cats, or the children or the weather.  Sadly, I only have myself and my magnificent lack of technological ability to blame.  And an appalling memory.  Ok, so it's been a while since I vented my musings on my blog, but I would have thought that some tiny nugget of know how would have led me down the right path eventually. But no. Again, sadly not.  Now had I been wracking my brain for the recipe for a nice Victoria Sponge there would have been no problem whatsoever.  Logical you see.  Eggs, sugar, flour, butter - mix it all together.  Voila! Cake.
Computers on the other hand clearly don't work on the principal of logic.  I try to sign in  -not surprisingly I can't remember my password from 1952. Slight exaggeration - I'm not that old.  But I might as well have been.  Twenty-seven emails (or thereabouts) later, I have a new password.  Did it work?  No.  Was it my fault?  Obviously.  Did I know how to sort it out?  Eventually.  But it took a sleepless night, a lot of alcohol and a marble cake to get me there (making one not eating it). The trouble is, now I'm here I can't actually remember what I was going to write about, which brings me back to my appalling memory.  So I apologize now for wasting your time, and hope that if I ever manage to find my way back into this twisted world of passwords and usernames, I will remember why I came here and successfully share my nugget of happiness accordingly.
I'm going to lay down now to recover. 

I just don't understand teenagers ...

No logic, that's the problem.  When I was fifteen, and it was raining, I would wear a coat. Or a jacket.  Or use an umbrella.  Logical.  So why, in the same weather conditions, on a cold, rainy April morning, when your loving and caring Mother tells you to take a coat with you when you leave the house, is she on the receiving end of a withering stare which tells her she is either completely and utterly stupid or perhaps just clinically insane?  My personal choice would be the latter, as it is only since becoming the mother of a teenager that my insanity has truly blossomed.  Prior to that I thought the worst stage of being a parent was the tantrum era, and before that, the relentless nights trying in vain to coax a baby to sleep, who appeared rather allergic to it.  But I take it all back.  This is, by far the worst.  At least there is some room for bargaining with a ferocious toddler, but try bribing a teenager and I might as well be trying to teach my cat to do the ironing ... now there's a thought.  Bonkers?  Me?

Oh To Be A Child Again

Why is it so hard to say what I would like to say at the time I want to say it?

Is it that my brain is so painfully slow at processing the information, so that hours or even days after the event, I am left obsessing about all the things I could or should have said at the time?

Or is it just fear that if I speak my mind without first considering the consequences, then I may live to regret it? But will I not regret it equally if I do NOT speak my mind?

Oh to be a child once more, where to say exactly what we think and feel is admired, praised and even encouraged!

How sad that as we grow older we hide so much of what we think and feel for fear of criticism or ridicule! Oh to be a child.