Petrina Binney's Blog, page 73

Day #17 Pringles and Houmous

Now, day seventeen and some of this is going to be a little bit rude. Brace yourselves.

I know that houmous has a bit of a look of… yeast infection in a plastic pot, but it’s fabulous.

When I grew up, the height of class and sophistication was a Vienetta. When I was young, my mother thought we were a bit ritzy because we usually had a tin of asparagus in the larder. When it was finally opened, the contents were borderline grey, and decidedly limp. I didn’t know until a couple of years ago that I actually liked asparagus.

I didn’t have an olive until I was old enough to vote. I was closing in on thirty by the time I got fancy-pants enough to discover houmous. And I am grateful for it. It has given me a truly wicked line of dialogue in book two, and, teamed with Pringles, it may be among the finest things there is.

[image error]

Now, true, it’s crammed to the gills with fattening stuff and, okay, I should probably watch that as I get older, but I must insist: we could all go about living on organic vegetables and mineral water blessed by nuns, but there’s no point in being miserable for the sake of it.

Some of us can tell the difference between mayonnaise and light mayonnaise. And it’s devastating. Where do they get the gall to put a label on a jar to suggest that that light monstrosity has anything to do with mayonnaise? I saw something the other day, and I thought I might just die.

Light houmous.

What is the blasted point?

Before I go, and in case you haven’t got to this point in book two yet – the line about houmous…

“He’s leaving. Some woman. Naturally. I think he must be smitten. Quite a lot of detail. Very vivid. My word.” He shuddered. “Still, you know what he’s like. He only wants to dip it into something damp and unfamiliar. Poor woman, she might as well be a pot of houmous.”

Excerpt From: “Sex, Death & Scallops” (Sex, Death and Dinner, #2) © Petrina Binney, 2018

UK: https://amzn.to/2xdxnXu
USA: https://amzn.to/2NI8gS2

So, there you have it, my lovelies. Houmous and Pringles. And it reminds me of this…

[image error]

Enjoy.

Day #16 All-Year Jeans

Day 16 and we’ll touch briefly on the subject of clothes.

Jeans. All-year jeans, to be specific.

[image error]

I spent much of my childhood in elasticated waists. God, the eighties were amazing. But I remember the profound sense of maturity I felt when I was finally allowed jeans, elastic-free and bootcut. Jeans that either fitted, hung loose, or dug into my skin: these were the items to prove my entry into the adult world.

Apart from a brief spell in my teens when I wore nothing but camouflage and, in so doing, found that even close friends were convinced I’d joined the Army cadets – despite my only having had the fitness for active jogging for about twelve minutes during that time – I have lived most of my life in denim.

[image error]

Of course, I hope, someday, to have a truly stunning jacket. A proper designer-labelled, silly, overpriced thing, to be worn at the premiere of the film – obviously. We’ll whack it on my list of ambitions. But I fancy I’ll team it with a pair of jeans. Fancy jacket, tatty jeans. It’s a look, and one I aspire to.

[image error]

So, there you have it – day sixteen – all-year denim, baby.

Day #15 Oscar Wilde

Day 15, and here we go… Oscar Wilde

[image error]

Infinitely quotable, wonderful, Irish.

[image error]

I remember when we got to the millennium, there was a very long, telethon-type programme to see us into the new age, and my mother wound up calling the BBC to complain.

[image error]

Round about hour thirteen – not running out of things to say but perhaps scraping the barrel a little in terms of guests – the TV people brought out a soap actress, and asked her several questions about the difference between working on the small screen as opposed to the stage. She smiled and explained herself quite admirably. And then, it all went to hell.

They asked her who was, in her opinion, the most significant and laudable English author of the last hundred years. Her reply, after some dithering: Oscar Wilde.

My mother hit the roof, called the BBC, and spent some minutes explaining that Dublin is not in England.

I maintain some pride in that.

Day #14 Oil Paint

Day fourteen, and one of my favourites. I should point out, I can’t paint.

I can paint a wall. I have been known to tackle a ceiling. I’ve even painted a gate. Like a boss.

But, in terms of painting something resembling art – no, I’ve got nothing, but I love the smell of paint.

It’s an abiding memory from my childhood collection – the scent of oil paint.

[image error]

And it’s as if I’m challenged, because honestly, I only just remembered this.

Both my parents painted. Not professionally, but they were both pretty keen. My dad was very fond of still life work, bridges and seascapes, that sort of thing. My mother tried her hand at portraiture, with varying levels of success. Frankly, whether a portrait actually looked like the model rather depended on whether or not she liked them.

[image error]

Now, here’s the thing: when I started work as an electrician, I had people ask me how the plumbing work was going. It’s not that they hadn’t been paying attention, or that they thought that plumbing and electricals were somehow interchangeable. It was just – people had their own stuff going on. This was my interpretation, and it remains the case. They were in the right general area, so I let it go.

It’s a funny thing, since friends of mine have discovered Sex, Death & Canapés, they’ve asked – not how my writing is going, but how my painting is. For those not in the know, my main character is an artist, but its a nice, little, hitherto-unrecognised nod to my parents.

I may not have any talent for it, but paint is in my blood. I’ve just traded oils and canvas for words and paper.

And so, to paraphrase Liz Taylor from American Horror Story: Hotel, really quite badly, “Cut me, and I bleed ink.”

[image error]

Day #13 Chapstick

Well, it’s day number thirteen, so let’s get to the important stuff: Chapstick.

Yes, I’m serious.

It’s one of the finest things there is in all the world.

Certainly, I used to find in my electrical days, and even DIYing since, I can’t mix plaster or hang a piece of wallpaper, I can’t even trim back a cable, without biting my lips. Now, this does not lead to the Jessica Rabbit, ever-pouty, well-hello-there look you might expect.

[image error]

No. It’s more of a stinging sensation which leads to yet more biting.

I don’t suppose I’ve gone a full day without chapstick since I was seventeen.

Some people have the same feeling about lipstick.

Many, many years ago, when my grandmother was dying, a sister of hers sent her a hat. It’s not quite as bizarre as it sounds. As much as my grandmother’s cancer was terminal, it was a time when the doctors allowed the family to decide whether or not to tell the patient. My mother and her brothers elected not to tell their mother. Her sister knew she wasn’t well; she just didn’t know how not-well she was.

Anywho, to cheer her up a bit, my great-aunt sent a hatbox, all the way from Canada, containing the sort of hat that would not look out of place at Ascot. Not the one in the picture, but similar. It was almost as big as she was.

[image error]

My mother brought the hatbox up to her mother’s bedroom with the rest of the post, and then went back down the stairs to collect her mother’s breakfast tray. When she returned to the room, she was slightly alarmed to find her mother, sitting up in bed, wincyette nighty, headful of curlers, a great big hat and letterbox-red lipstick, to match.

[image error]

There’s nothing like a bit of lippy to remind you you’re alive. If that’s what floats your boat.

I’m more of a chapstick girl.

Day #12 Electricity

Well, I am a former electrician, and so this had to come up eventually…

Electricity.

Obviously, given that I now live my life on a laptop, I need some power going into the machine. And perhaps I feel the need for electricity more than normal people, because I’m a night owl and realistically, I couldn’t be if I was living by candlelight and quill pen.

[image error]

Besides all else, if I think back to our last power cut and the chaos that ensued from missing the last fifteen minutes of ‘Skyfall’ while the dogs barked because a burglar alarm was going off up the road, and thereby set off every other dog in the village, it’s plain to see: Electricity is not only useful, it’s so imperative to, at the very least, my existence that I really should give it the credit it deserves.

It blends into the background, invisible, deadly, and wonderful, and I almost forget about it completely. Until there’s a power cut, and I am reduced to wondering when I last hit ‘Save’.

[image error]

Lest we forget, brainwaves, thunderstorms, and the spark that comes from meeting someone incredible. All of it – electricity, and worth a doff of the cap.

[image error]

So, there you go – day 12 of things to be happy about – Electricity.

Day #11 Real Heroes

Day 11, and to be fair, this was going to be a very sensible post about real heroes.

Yesterday, there was a smidge of superheroes, but sometimes, amid all the flash and car-chase, we forget about the non-fictional heroes who surround us in daily life.

Anyway, I will get onto the whole ‘Real Heroes’ bit, but first, I must tell you a story Aimée just told me about her day in the shop.

A man came in with three little boys: twins of about four, and an older boy of around eleven. As they were approaching the till, with a basket of shopping, the father told his boys to go off and find themselves a treat each.

The older boy went straight to the confectionary aisle, and selected a packet of super-sour sweeties.

One of the twins ran over to the breakfast area, and picked up a family-sized box of Wheetos.

The other twin was taking his time, and so the older boy picked out a packet of Mr. Kipling cakes just in case.

When the other twin appeared, he had a giant, euphoric smile on his face and in his hands, a pack of three garlic bulbs and a lemon.

Just the cutest thing in the world.

So, okay, real heroes.

I have been fortunate enough to work behind the bar in my local Legion club for the last nine years. In that time, I have got to know plenty of veterans. Veterans, either from war zones or from life.

I have been near-enough adopted by a selection of older chaps, who have either taken me on as ‘daughter’ or ‘granddaughter’, but I fill a space which would not otherwise have been filled. I am the ‘daughter’/‘granddaughter’ with whom they can have a pint. The traditional granddad stories, told on knees for many a year, take a slight detour because of the space I occupy. I get to hear about pranks and the jollies, the drinking games and forfeits. For others, I’m the near-enough sister. Still drinking buddy, but drinking buddy in a bra. It is a special space I live in.

The photo is of Ivor, my near-enough granddad, who took me under his wing during my first Sunday lunchtime shift at the Legion in 2009.

So, there you have it – day 11 – heroes in real life.

Day #10 Superpowers (Weeding)

Day ten, and not even flagging. I’ve got to say, I’m a bit chuffed with that.

Anywho, day ten and we move on to the remarkably reachable possibility of superpowers.

[image error]

It’s a question that comes up, midweek, when there’s nothing on the telly and the Guinness is flowing.

[image error]

So, if you could have any superpower, which one would you choose?

[image error]

There are, seemingly, so many to choose from. Immortality, invisibility, telekinesis, flight, precognition, regeneration, and yes… I am just going through the gifts in ‘Heroes’ but none of those talents ever really appealed to me.

No. If I had my choice I think I’d go with – really effectively killing off brambles.

I have some talent in terms of fixing things. I wired in my whole house. Frankly, the bungalow should have burned down before I was qualified, but once I had that piece of paper, I set about ripping out every cable and tutting. I fitted a carpet last summer. True, I didn’t do a professional job, but it hasn’t curled at the corners or torn yet, so I call that a victory.

A couple of times a year, I have a bit of a moment and decide that all the weeds have to go. I can’t keep them, choking the house and threatening the guttering, and tiptoeing my way around the sludgy, nettled walkways isn’t as fun as it sounds.

So, I don the gloves, grab the cutters and spade, and rip out every single one. Pretty much, give it a month – they’re all back.

Now, you might ask yourself – how is this a positive?

Well, I know that nothing worth having comes without work, so I’m going to try again. It’ll take a couple of months to get it right but – for a few weeks, at least – the garden will be all right. Not great, but all right, and therefore, worth it.

So, that’s day ten for you – Superpowers (Weeding).

Day #9 What You’ve Been Working For

So, it’s day nine of #365HappyDays and it would be remiss of me not to mention this…

[image error]

Honestly, I only found this last night. In a moment of… actually, yes. I should explain this.

I was planning on talking about something else, and it occurred to me that I’d need a couple of pictures to go along with the post. However, I’ve spent rather too long on the wrong side of the camera and thus, I have very few pictures of myself over the age of twenty. Anyway, one thing and another, I was drawn to the absolutely appalling exercise of googling my own name.

And then I found that little box with my name in it.

In all honesty, whatever I was going to talk about, the self-googling made me feel a little like I was dating myself, and rather loudly. So – no.

However, it did give me a new subject. Day nine, a moment that reminds you what you’ve been working for.

Day #8 Movie Night

And it’s day 8 of #365HappyDays, so let’s talk Movie Night.

Movie Night is every Monday at my local Legion Club, and we have a different film every single week. It’s been going for around seven and a half years now, and we’ve never repeated a title. I’m a little bit proud of that.

[image error]

Of course, we’ve shown some films that I would never willingly watch again (Midnight Cowboy springs to mind. I know it’s a classic but eugh), but the vast majority have been pretty great. Because we dabble in different genres, there’s no chance of getting bored. We get different people every week, and most importantly, we’ve gone from a night when we were closed to a night which is regularly attended, and about seventy percent female. That’s a pretty big deal for our Club, which has been appeared, at least from the outside, like a bit of a man-cave.

And I adore my Movie Nighters. Really. They’re a great crowd, and I’ve made some tremendous friends who I don’t like to do without.

It’s rare that I take a week off. Very. You could count the nights off I’ve had in this last year on two fingers. One – Christmas Eve. Two – New Year’s Eve. Of course, I still went in to clean the pipes, but I didn’t show films on those nights.

[image error]

When my first two customers came in last night, I chattered away at them as if I hadn’t seen them in months, and I could hear myself doing it. I often embarrass myself. I rarely need an audience for it. Anyway, getting back to Movie Night…

Naturally, there are some of my people who are indulging in Dry January. Some of them are doing it as a personal challenge, a new ideal of self-care, others are doing it for charity. If experience is anything to go on, the self-care crowd might just succumb to alcohol poisoning some time in February.

So, Day 8 – community, women and film – Movie Night.