Debbie Viggiano's Blog, page 6

Possible Pottiness

A little while ago my daughter cracked a joke – or so I thought – resulting in me laughing out loud.  She’d opened a small packet of oatcakes, then looked at them incredulously and said, ‘What person in their right mind thinks it’s okay to put an odd number of biscuits into a packet?’  Her reasoning was that if she ate three biscuits a day, she’d have one left over. Or if she ate two biscuits a day, she’d have one left over.
          ‘Does it matter?’ I asked.
          ‘Of course!’ Eleanor cried.  ‘Who wants to have a day where there is only one biscuit?’
          I’d shrugged and thought fair enough.  But then again, that would never happen to me because I’d be a piggy and eat all seven in one go.  Problem instantly resolved!
          Last week Eleanor was given a large box of chocolates.  She kept them in her room where Mr V and I wouldn’t see them!  However, I had to go into her bedroom for something and there on her desk, in all its enticing glory, were the chocolates.  Well, I’m sorry, but I’m only human.  So I lifted off the lid and took one.  When my daughter came home, she knew.
          ‘You’ve had one of my chocolates!’
          ‘But you don’t mind, do you?’
          ‘Yes!’
          ‘It was only one,’ I replied indignantly.  ‘Can’t you spare one teeny chocolate for your sugar-deprived mother who was having a major withdrawal moment and suffering the shakes?’ (Sometimes I have to lay things on thick in order to get my own way.)
          ‘Of course I don’t mind you having a chocolate,’ Eleanor said, ‘but I domind you destroying my pattern.’
          ‘Pattern?’
          ‘Yes, pattern!  Look, you’ve messed up the pattern.’
          I peered at the chocolates and, sure enough, I could see they’d been eaten in a particular order so a square always remained.  And suddenly it dawned on me my daughter had a touch of OCD.  How many times has she chided me for not wrapping presents ‘correctly’ and having patterned wrapping paper lining up in a certain way before the Sellotape goes on?  Or putting colourful stickers on the envelopes of, say, birthday cards, again arranged in a particular pattern?
          Laughingly, I told my husband about it.  He actually looked quite concerned.  ‘It’s not such a funny subject.  I know somebody who started off like that and now she’s getting divorced because she does all sorts of obsessional things and her husband says he’s had enough.’
          But haven’t we all got a touch of OCD?  I like my wardrobes and kitchen cupboards to be orderly.  What goes under the sink doesn’t matter too much – cleaning fluid, cloths, scourers, and rubber gloves all jostle together in a happy muddle – but coat hangers have to face the same way in wardrobes and I like things in regimental rows in my china and condiments cupboards.  Heaven help the person who grabs a tin of baked beans but then changes their minds and shoves the tin back in any old how.
          Despite my daughter’s pattern fetish, it doesn’t extend to the arrangement of china in the kitchen cupboards. I can always tell when she’s emptied the dishwasher because stone mugs are mixed up with porcelain teacups and it looks, well, plain wrong!
          ‘You’re not without your own funny ways,’ Eleanor pointed out.
          ‘Who, me?’ I asked incredulously.
          ‘You always insist people wash their hands as soon as they get in through the front door.’
          ‘That’s simply to avoid grubby fingerprints over the paintwork!’
          ‘Well that might have been fine when I was six, but I’m nearly eighteen…and so are my friends!’
          ‘So I don’t want big grubby fingerprints all over the paintwork!’
          ‘And you always clean the toilet if a stranger uses it.’
          ‘Because he might have germs!’
          ‘Different germs to us?’
          ‘Yes!  Anyway, I’ve had enough of this conversation.’
          ‘And look how you are about the cat,’ my daughter was almost rubbing her hands together as she warmed to the subject.
          ‘What about the cat?’
          ‘You’re incapable of putting any laundry into the washing machine or tumble dryer without checking at least three times that Dolly isn’t inside either machine.  In fact I’d say you’re quite neurotic about it.’
          I held up a finger.  ‘That’s because I know somebody who scooped up a pile of laundry, chucked it in the washing machine and their kitten happened to have curled up inside the laundry pile.  And no,’ I caught Eleanor’s horrified expression, ‘the kitten didn’t die, thank God, because the woman saw its anxious little face peering at her through the glass door as the water level began to rise.  But it could have been disastrous.’
          Eleanor looked relieved but wasn’t going to let me off so lightly.  ‘The thing is, Mum, you still check the washing machine and tumble dryer when Dolly is sitting right next to you watching what you’re doing.’
          She has a point.  So I checked out OCD on Google.  It was quite revealing.  Here are the common ones:
          Handwashing.  (No comment.)
          Organising wardrobes.  (No comment.)
          Worrying about accidents and excessively checking things.  (*gulps*…no comment.)
          Organisation of cupboards to include lines of symmetry.  (*getting a bit sweaty*…no comment.)
          Putting things in patterns.  (Hurrah, innocent, but over to you, Eleanor!).
          So, clearly I’m half-way down a slippery slope and my daughter has started to topple off it.  Excuse me while I make our appointments to see a therapist.  Which reminds me.
          Did you hear about the person suffering from CDO?  It’s like OCD but the letters are in alphabetical order.  LIKE THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO BE…         

An Italian Wedding

Let me take you on a journey, where the land is carpeted with cypress-studded hills, the sky is as blue as a lark, and a golden sun shines over vineyards and wineries, mansions and ancient castles.  This is Tuscany, home to fabulous cities like Florence and Pisa.
          Last weekend we took off to Pisa for a cousin’s wedding, and travelled along the central coast of Tuscany to the province of Livorno.  Our hotel, the Grand Palazzo, was only a short stroll from the church of San Jacopo in Acquaviva, a papal vision in pale peach melba topped by a huge bell waiting to ring out un matrimonio.  The church dates back to the twelfth century and dominates a corner plot exposed to both wind and sea.  In June, with soaring temperatures, the sea breezes are most welcome, although on this particular wedding day it scooped my hair into a vertical ‘Jedward’ arrangement, and caused chaos with ladies’ hemlines.
           Stepping inside the church’s cool interior, we slipped silently into the farthest pew.  I wanted to capture the bride’s entrance and had my iPad at the ready.  Moments later she was there, standing nervously in the huge open doorway on the arm of her proud father.  Heads turned, eyes strained, and there was a collective gasp that moved around the church like a sigh.
          ‘Ah, beautiful,’ I said to my husband.  That was my last coherent sentence before the music kicked in, so sweet and haunting that the hair on my head seemed to rise up without any help of outside sea breezes.  As the choir burst forth into an Italian version of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujahmy face was suddenly awash with tears.  It dawned on me that if I could get into such a state at an Italian cousin’s nuptials, I was going to be in serious trouble if and when my own children one day marry.  But I digress, that is all in the future.  The here and the now was a bride sweeping regally down the aisle in a dress that screamed both elegance and class, whilst a long veil wafted around her like early morning mist.  Her awaiting bridegroom looked suitably gobsmacked at this ethereal vision who was soon to become his wife.
          I’d barely finished trumpeting into my tissue when another was hastily required.  The bridegroom recited his vows with perfect fluidity.  Then it was the bride’s turn.  She started well, but faltered half way through, her eyes brimming…which set me off for a second time.
          ‘Pass me those tissues,’ I said to Mr V.  But it turned out he was busy patting his own eyes.
          ‘Eyelash,’ he hastily informed me.
          Which reminds me. Girl to fiancé:  ‘When we’re married, I want you to share with me all your worries and troubles.’  Fiancé:  ‘But I don’t have any worries and troubles.’  Girl:  ‘I know, but we’re not married yet…’  

A Cretan Affair

You don’t know how much trouble I had typing that title.  The word ‘cretin’ was typed at least three times before I furiously backspaced one final time to carefully watch what my fingers were doing.
          But I digress.  My blog has been silent because, like most adulterous people, I sneaked off.  Well, I had the grace to tell the husband.  I just didn’t tell him all the nitty-gritty…like being seduced by a whisper of warm breath on the neck, or staring into the very soul of my lover.  And before you gasp in horror, I’m talking about Crete.  Yes, I was unfaithful to good ol’ Blighty, turning my back on the usual summer of sunny spells interspersed with heavy showers and a sudden need to put the heating on in June.  Legging it to Gatwick Airport, I wasn’t alone in this duplicitous act.  My sister came too.
          My sis is currently…well…going through stuff, and she needed a break.  And what better excuse does a big sister need to look after her little sister when a spot of foreign sun is involved?
          And so it began…this delicious affair with an island steeped in history and handsome Greek Gods.  We had grand ideas of checking out all sorts of places, going on a boat trip and sipping cocktails from the all-inclusive bar.  It didn’t quite work out that way.  As I said, my sis is going through stuff and it was as much as she could do to crawl to the swimming pool in the morning and her bed at the end of the day.  I did manage to steer her into the bar most evenings before dinner, but as she’s not a drinker, this wasn’t a roaring success.  Not that I’m a big drinker, but I do like a glass of wine when on my holibobs.  However, there is no joy in having a glass of wine all by yourself with a teetotaller drumming her fingers.  The result was always the same – me tossing the wine down my neck in thirty seconds flat on an empty stomach.  By the time I staggered into the dining room I was always having a head rush and somewhat blotto.
          ‘You wanna drink?’ the waitress would ask, hovering by our table with notepad in hand.
          ‘Yes please, water,’ my sister would crisply say.
          I would then have a huge glass of water so that by the time I walked over to the area where mass catering was taking place, I was once again stone cold sober.  Half way through the week I did finally persuade my sis to join me in a drink.  She went slightly berserk and had a soda water with lime cordial.
          Every evening we would chat to the ‘beautiful people’…the entertainment staff who were all gorgeous looking and made you wish you were thirty years younger.
          ‘Tonight it is salsa dancing.’
          ‘Lovely,’ I replied.
          ‘Good heavens, is that the time?’ my sis interrupted.
          ‘Is it late?’
          ‘Yes.  Quarter past eight.’
          Whereupon my sis would retire to her bed, a vision in sleep mask and ear plugs, and lay comatose for twelve hours.  I didn’t mind really, although I’d tease her about it.  The Land of Nod is a place we retreat to when life gets a bit lumpy.  And I was more than happy to hop into my own bed, a vision in face cream and lip balm, to scribble away on the current work-in-progress which has had more interruptions than…I can’t think of an appropriate simile so will leave you to think of one instead.
          Actually, tell a lie, we did do one activity.  Retail therapy, but Cretan style.  This involved a long lazy walk into nearby Ag Nik, which was quaint and charming and far removed from the throbbing party place it becomes in August.  We explored shops sporting all manner of goodies – from jewellers to shoes, and clothes to handbags.  And we both bought a Michael Kors handbag.  Well, okay, a fake Michael Kors handbag.  And fake Michael Kors sunglasses…and fake Gucci shoes…and ‘diamond’ bracelets.  I do love a bit of bling.
          And it was nice to have a fifty-something Greek ‘God’ (well, he had his own teeth and hair) call out, ‘Lovely ladies…nice eyes,’ and dutifully simper back.  We all like a bit of a flirt (don’t we?).  But the real knee-tremble stuff happened when you walked on the beach with sand so soft it caressed your toes, and the sea called invitingly making you embrace it at a run with arms flung wide, and the sun tickled your skin so you tingled from the inside out.  Which reminds me (and apologies in advance, but it’s a naughty joke!).
          A woman was having an affair while her husband was at work.  One day, while the boyfriend was in bed with her, she heard her husband’s car pull up outside the house.
          ‘Hurry! My husband’s home early.  Climb out the window!’
          ‘I can’t climb out the window,’ the boyfriend protested. ‘It’s raining out there.’
          ‘If you don’t climb out the window, my husband will punch you.’
          So the boyfriend grabbed his clothes and climbed out the window.
          As he ran down the street in pouring rain, he quickly discovered he’d run right into the middle of the town’s annual marathon, so he started to run along with the others, attempting to blend in as best as possible – he was naked after all.
          ‘Do you always run in the nude?’ asked a fellow runner.
          ‘Oh yes,’ he replied, somewhat out of breath. ‘It feels so wonderfully free.’
          Another runner moved alongside.  ‘Do you always run whilst carrying your clothes under one arm?’
          ‘Absolutely,’ he replied breathlessly.  ‘I can get dressed at the end of the run and go straight home!’
          Then a third runner cast his eyes a little lower and queried, ‘Do you always wear a condom when you run?’
          ‘Nope…just when it’s raining…’

Happy House Hunting

I’ve been looking at houses for the last four years.  Yes, really.  Nearly two years ago we actually did up sticks and move, but it was – for wont of a better way of describing it – a temporary move.  The house we currently live in was bought for many reasons – downsizing, convenience, wanting everything brand new so a bucket of money didn’t need throwing at the place – all this and more.  But the fact remains it is a temporary house.  When our youngest leaves the nest, it will be time to think about the ultimate move.  Now that Eleanor is on the threshold of going to drama school and getting digs, the ultimate move is starting to become a real possibility.
          However, as my husband wants an apartment and I want a house, we’re already off to a slightly difficult start.  Compromises are needed. I’m up for an apartment if it’s large, light and airy and on the ground floor, so I don’t feel like I’m imprisoned in some sort of ivory tower.  Then there is the location – it has to combine ‘Escape to the Country’ with an easy(ish) commute.  Prices in the South currently seem to range from ridiculous to outrageous.  What has happened to the property market in the last two years?  When we left our large five-bedroomed detached in 2013, we almost had to give the wretched thing away.  And yet now I’m ringing up estate agents to make a viewing appointment on something mediocre with an exorbitant price tag only to be told, ‘It’s just been sold.  Full market price too.’
          Last weekend we viewed properties in Speldhurst, Tunbridge Wells and Penshurst.  The Speldhurst property sported a gorgeous sun room that overlooked ten acres of arable land under a cornflower-blue sky.  Unfortunately the rest of the place wasn’t so gorgeous.  It was a ‘project’.  The last time we undertook a project I lost a stone in weight, lived in mess for six months, had to chastise workmen who wanted exorbitant sums of money - in cash if you please - and then chuffed off at half past three saying their day’s work was done.  I vowed never again to undertake a project.  So we took our leave of the Speldhurst property and went to Tunbridge Wells where some game souls had bought a project and done it up themselves.  The brochure sported shiny bang-up-to-trend photographs.  But the difference between Joe Bloggs doing up his property and a proper building firm doing it comes down to quality.  As we let ourselves into the beautiful grand entrance with its ceramic tiled floor, my stockinged feet instantly turned to blocks of ice.  Underfloor heating is usual in finishes such as this.  But not for Joe Bloggs.  Apparently that would have been too expensive, even though the price tag begged to differ.  Never mind.
          ‘Be careful on your left.  The balustrade spindles need fixing,’ said Joe Bloggs.  Actually, I’m going to rename Mr Bloggs Mr Cowboy.
          We pushed open a bathroom door which scraped and stuck half way.
          ‘Just a bit of snagging,’ said Mr Cowboy.
          As we progressed through the house, the snagging list grew, grew, and grew a bit more.  So we moved on to property number three in Penshurst.  Unfortunately the property went under offer before we had even arrived.  Frustrated, we took ourselves off to my sister who lives in the area.  Once ensconced on her sofa, my husband literally drowned his sorrows in a vast G & T (he finds house hunting traumatic at the best of times) and I fed the crisis by raiding my sister’s fridge.  It was at this point I had a brilliant idea.
          ‘I’ve just realised something!’ I beamed at my husband and sister.  ‘Last year we viewed a beautiful property not a million miles from here, but the elderly lady took it off the market before we could make an offer.  Do you remember?  She had a nasty fall and broke her leg.  Let’s go and knock on her door and see if she’s ready to put the place up for sale again!’
          ‘Brilliant idea,’ said Mr V.
          So off we set.  Upon arrival, Mr V refused to get out of the car on the grounds that I’m apparently ‘much better at this sort of thing’ and that his insistence on staying put in the car was absolutely nothing to do with listening to a football match on the radio.
          One minute later I was standing in a beautiful private courtyard with the house of my dreams, my ultimate move, directly in front of me.  To the rear was open countryside stretching as far as the eye could see.  And just five minutes away was the A21 which connected to the M25 straight into London.  The elusive ‘List of Requirements’ hovered in my peripheral vision and I mentally ticked them off one by one!  Taking a deep breath, I knocked on the door.  It was answered by a pleasant looking man.
          ‘Yes?’
          For a moment I floundered.  Who was he?  Ah, he must be the vendor’s son.
          ‘Hello!’ I beamed chummily.  ‘I do hope you don’t mind my knocking, but my husband and I viewed this property last year before your mother broke her leg.  We just wondered if she’d be remarketing soon?’
          The man put his hands together and gave a sad smile.
          ‘I’m so sorry.  I do hope you haven’t had a wasted journey, but I’m the new owner of this house.  I viewed this property last year too and, like you, had the same idea of approaching the vendor.  Except I approached her three months ago.  I moved in yesterday.’
          ‘Oh, lucky you!’ I gasped, feeling as though I’d just been punched in the solar plexis.
          ‘I know!’ trilled the man.  ‘I can’t believe my luck.  It’s so lovely here.  All this countryside.  And the birds singing.  And the garden is heaven.  And the neighbours are wonderful.  I’m just so happy.’
          ‘Marvellous!’ I responded, resisting the temptation to beat my chest and wail.
          ‘Best thing I ever did.  I felt very sorry for the old girl of course.  No fun breaking your leg in umpteen places and taking months and months to heal.  But the timing was perfect.  I just snuck in there, made my offer, and bingo!  Here I am!’
           ‘Yes, here you are.  Fabulous!  Well, I hope you’ll be very happy.’  I tried desperately hard to mean it and not wish him and his house a terrible case of rising damp and a plague of woodworm…if you can get such a thing.
          I drooped back to the car.
          ‘Well?’ asked Mr V, turning the radio volume down.
          ‘It was sold last Christmas.’
          ‘Ah.’
          ‘I’m devastated.’
          ‘Well on the plus side I’ve got a small piece of good news.’
          I turned to my husband hopefully.  ‘What?’
          ‘Arsenal didn’t completely thrash Manchester United.  It was a draw.’
          Does any other woman out there ever get the odd fleeting moment where they could happily bash their husband over the head with their handbag?  Which reminds me.
          A husband and wife spent all day house-hunting.  The final property they viewed was full of mirrors.  The husband turned to his wife and said, ‘I can see myself living here…’

What's Up Doc?

Most people know my daughter is an aspiring actress, so nobody was too surprised when we set off to Cornwall to do a bit of filming on Doc Martin.  Neither Eleanor nor I have ever been to Cornwall, so we were doubly excited to make the journey.
          ‘How long will it take?’ asked Eleanor as I programmed the sat-nav.
          ‘It says here…four hours and thirty minutes.’
          ‘Okay.’  Eleanor looked thoughtful as she leant back in her seat.  ‘So, allowing for fourteen million wee stops combined with your driving speed, we’re looking at…what?  Six hours?’
          ‘Probably.’
          In fact it took six-and-a-half hours.  We were distracted by bladders that refused to synchronise and mesmerising constantly shifting scenery.  It was so good to leave behind a town and soak up a landscape of greens and yellows.  Like a vast tablecloth, huge swathes of fields embroidered with miles of hedgerow were spread before us.  Flowering rapeseed swayed next to freshly tilled acres.  Herds of cows grazed in fields adjacent to sheep nursing tiny lambs.  Not a towering office block or electric pylon blotted the landscape.  Oh, tell a lie, there was the odd field full of wind turbines.  Can’t have it all I suppose.
          ‘Just look at all this.’ I took one hand off the steering wheel and gestured at God’s countryside.  ‘I can almost feel the energy coming off the land.’
          ‘I can certainly smell it,’ said Eleanor, nodding at a pig farm to our left.
          ‘Oooh, look at all those lovely fat piggies rootling around in the bare earth and wagging their curly tails.  How can anybody bear to eat animals?’  Sorry, but every now and again the vegetarian in me rears up.
          ‘They are cute,’ Eleanor admitted. ‘But they do taste rather scrumptious slapped between two slices of bread.’  Every now and again the carnivore in my daughter rears up.
          When we came across a sign saying Exeter 165 miles I began to fidget in anticipation.
          ‘We’ve broken the back of this journey,’ I declared.
          Watching the sign for Exeter slowly reduce every twenty minutes became a fixation.  Well there’s not much else to do when you’re staring endlessly at a road.  By the time we sped past Welcome to Cornwall, I was in my element.
          ‘What a place!’
          ‘Isn’t it pretty!’
          We were enthralled.  Not so thrilling, were the roads.  They went up hill and down dale and twisted like a writhing snake.  Incredulously all the roads seemed to be set at the National Speed Limit.  A glance in my rearview mirror revealed a stream of traffic unimpressed with me driving at fifty miles per hour.  It was at this point that the journey became something of a white-knuckle ride.  I dared to edge up to sixty miles per hour (I’m no Lewis Hamilton) and hunched over the wheel.  Eleanor gripped the sides of her seat.  Together we leant into bends and willed my car to do the same.  It didn’t.
          ‘Mum, I can’t take any more of this.  Slow down.’
          ‘You’re right,’ I said, zipping into a handy layby ahead.
          ‘What are you doing?’ asked Eleanor.
          ‘Letting this lot pass.’
          ‘And now what are you doing?’
          ‘Chasing the buggers,’ I declared, accelerating after them.  Oh yes.  If you can’t beat them, join them.
          ‘Are you sure about this?’
          As the speedometer reached seventy miles per hour and the car wallowed around yet another sharp bend, I had to admit defeat.
          ‘I can’t keep up with them.’
          ‘Thank the Lord for that,’ sighed Eleanor.
          ‘The drivers down here are lunatics,’ I declared.
          ‘OH MY GOD!’ Eleanor shrieked.
          ‘What is it?’ I gasped, anxiously scouring the road for mad Cornish drivers and wild animals (we’d already passed a small deer with all four feet up in the air).
          ‘I HAVEN’T PACKED MY EYEBROW PENCIL.’
          Before I go any further with this story, I’d just like to point out that Eleanor is seventeen.  Eyebrow pencils at this tender age are a matter of life and death.
          ‘Do you want to borrow mine?’
          ‘But you don’t possess an eyebrow pencil!’
          ‘Well, no, it’s an eyeliner crayon.  But can’t that double up?’
          ‘Of course not! No offence, Mum, but you and make-up are, well, a bit slap dash.  And I’m not.’
          Tell me about it.  My make-up routine is ten minutes max, whereas my daughter’s is, at best, half an hour on a ‘looking natural’ day.  After all, this is a young woman who follows Zoella, the holy grail of make-up blogs, and never misses a new product being demonstrated.
          ‘I must buy an eyebrow pencil before tomorrow morning,’ said Eleanor.
          ‘Okay.’
          We were heading towards Port Isaac now, rocking along country lanes no wider than the car, surrounded by umpteen mooing cows, hundreds of bleating sheep and a very occasional outbuilding.  As the sat-nav led us into the grounds of our remote hotel, we both gasped with delight.  Fields continued to gently fold out either side of us but, straight ahead was a turquoise sea.  It curled around the coastline glittering with a million diamonds under the early evening sun.
          Eleanor was the first to recover from this glorious spectacle.  ‘Do you think there’s a Boots around here?’
          I would have blinked at her in surprise, but by this point I’d been staring at the road for so long and hard, my eyes had lost the ability to do anything other than remain wide open.
          We took our suitcases and trudged into the hotel.  And what a hotel!  Old elegance mixed with lashings of contemporary modernisation.  Dinner was superb.  We ate in the conservatory overlooking the same twinkling sea.  A low sun hovered on the horizon displaying colours of burnt orange and streaks of peach melba.
          Our bedroom was in a huge attic room with a picture window framing the coastline.  From this viewpoint we could also see the farm where the Doc Martin production team kicked off every morning.
          Suffice to say the filming was very interesting and the people absolutely lovely, including Martin Clunes who (not being a telly watcher) I could only remember from Men Behaving Badly.  What a lovely, lovely guy.  So patient and obliging, letting anybody and everybody be photographed with him.
          Two days later we had to drive to pretty Falmouth where Eleanor did a day’s filming with a German crew.  Oh how different they were from the Brits.  Aloof, unfriendly and egos the size of a house.  At least the scenery was lovely to make up for it.  The filming took place by the harbour with hundreds of boats bobbing in the background of the camera lens.  And action! A sixty-year-old woman with three facelifts and playing the part of a thirty-year-old berated her thirty-year-old lover for cheating on her with an older woman.  Cue older woman, who was all of twenty-five, rushing over to thirty-year-old lover and doing the sort of cheesy clinch that was all too reminiscent of Dallas.
          ‘And cut,’ said the director.  Or words to that effect.  They were German after all.  Whereupon the leading man and his ‘lover’ continued to snog.  Ooh-er.  Chemistry or what.
          I felt sad to leave Cornwall.  I’d talked to so many people – holidaymakers, film crew, actors, extras – and patted and cuddled so many dogs too, that departure was comparable to saying good-bye to a huge group of extended family.  It’s a magical place.  Go there and see for yourself.  Which reminds me.
          What is the Cornish seaside’s favourite brand of laundry detergent?  Tide… 

Wonderful Woodstock

Having spent the last two months charging up and down motorways taking my daughter to various drama schools and universities for entry into higher education this autumn, one of our recent treks was to The Oxford School of Drama.  I left my daughter there and, as I had eight hours to kill, went off to explore nearby Woodstock. What a wonderful place!
          British weather in springtime can be a bit iffy, and at nine in the morning the sun hadn’t quite decided what it was doing.  Discovering a rare parking space, I locked up and set off on foot to find a post office – not because Woodstock’s post office is a tourist hot spot, simply because I had a parcel to post.  However, what Woodstock’s post office is extremely good for is a spot of eavesdropping.  Now if you’re anything like me, you’ll love a bit of gossip.  It doesn’t matter if it’s gossip with your best mate, gossip with your neighbour, gossip with your sister, or gossip with a total stranger.  It’s all eighteen-carat-gold gossip.  And Woodstock Post Office was abuzz.
          I ducked through the low door and went inside.  There was a sizeable queue of blue-rinsed ladies jostling for space while two women behind counters struggled to cope with Pension Day.  I say struggle, but it was nothing to do with irate old folk.  No, it was because the lady behind Counter One was having a bad day.  She’d caught her husband out.  He was having an affair.  And she didn’t care who knew it.  The lady’s woes were being relayed, top volume, to the lady behind Counter Two.  Naturally it is difficult to concentrate on counting out pension money when telling your colleague what you’d like to do to (a) your husband’s mistress and (b) your husband’s private parts.  Likewise it’s difficult to concentrate on counting out pension money when listening to your colleague telling you about (a) her husband’s mistress and (b) her husband’s private parts.
          In front of me were two old dears gossiping to each other about the gossip going on behind Counter One and Counter Two.
          ‘Poor Jenny. Looks like her Bernard’s been at it again.’
          ‘Oh dear.  But you have to admit, her Bernard is a bit of all right.’
          ‘Do you think?’
          ‘Aye.  Reminds me of Poldark.’
          ‘Oooh, Poldark.  He’s smashing, he is.  What’s his name?’
          ‘Poldark.’
          ‘No, I meant his real name.’
          ‘It’s…um…it’ll come to me in a minute…it’s…Captain Poldark.’
          ‘That’s it.’
          ‘I’ll let you into a secret, Phyllis,’ said the first pensioner, sucking on her dentures and looking furtively from left to right. ‘Captain Poldark can come and mow my lawn anytime he likes.’
          So there you have it.  Female pensioners in Woodstock are desperate for gardeners with brooding good looks and a big lawnmower.
          When I finally made it out of there, I moved on to exploring the shops.  Now this is Woodstock, not London, so the main street consisted of one ‘designer’ boutique with dresses that weren’t so much avant garde as ’aven’t-a-clue.  For there, in the window, in all its brazen glory, was a brown linen pinafore dress that looked like something I’d made from the sewing lessons of my schooldays. It was only the price tag that begged to differ.  Further on were several antique shops (the pinafore dress might have been more at home in them), four charity shops and a pub that looked like it had upped and come.  I started with the charity shops.  There is something about browsing tat and the possibility of picking up a bargain that is quite addictive.  My bargain on this occasion was Miranda Hart’s book, Is It Just Me?  As somebody who has many Miranda Hart moments in real life, I adore the woman.
          It was at that precise moment the weather changed.  Grey clouds gathered and the heavens opened.  So I set off to the pub with Miranda.  We had a pot of tea and a piece of cake together and, an hour later, decided to have an early lunch.  It was at this point I once again found myself listening to Woodstock gossip.
          Sitting on the table next to mine were two women having a ‘working lunch’.  Within seconds it became apparent the first woman, a heavily made-up blonde, was getting married for the fourth time, and the second woman, a satisfied looking brunette, was a wedding dress designer.  Demand after demand was being made from the blonde.
          ‘It has to be pretty,’ she insisted, ‘but also classic.  And you’ve absolutely got to come up with a design that flattens my tummy.’
          ‘No problem.  Now have you given some thought to accessories?’
          ‘Yes, leave that bit to me.  I’m going to pop over to New York for a darling little handbag I’ve seen.’
          Now anybody who can sit in Woodstock and talk about popping overto New York as if it were just down the road, is clearly not your average bride.  My ears went into full wiggle-mode.
          ‘And how is Steve dealing with the news of your marriage?’
          ‘Oh, Steve,’ the bride-to-be rolled her eyes and made a tutting sound. ‘Like all exes, he’s beyond jealous.’
          ‘Is he coming to the wedding?’
          I nearly choked on a carrot.  What bride invites the ex to her nuptials?
          ‘No, he’s declined.  Apparently he has a long-standing appointment with a chiropodist to get a verruca removed.’
          I stared at a potato with a black root sticking out, and decided to skip that bit of my dinner.
          ‘And has your husband-to-be decided what he’s wearing?’
          ‘I’ll decide what he’s wearing,’ said the blonde firmly.  ‘I want his wedding shirt to have a pearl insignia around the collar.’
          ‘Very nice,’ murmured the designer.
          If I’d insisted upon my husband wearing a shirt covered in pearls he’d have walked in the opposite direction.
          ‘I think when all is said and done, it will be a beautiful day,’ said the blonde.  ‘After all, not many brides have a pagan wedding in Iceland.’
          I presumed she wasn’t talking about the British chain of frozen food stores.  It was at this point that I noticed the sun had come out.  It was time to take my leave.  So Miranda and I set off, ducked down cobbled streets, skipped past twee historical houses, and quite by accident came across Blenheim Palace.  Home to the twelfth Duke and Duchess of Marlborough and birthplace of Sir Winston Churchill, a wonderful afternoon was had exploring this monumental country house.  And as for the gossip in their tea room…well let’s just say I gathered some superb future novel fodder.  Which reminds me.
          A lot of ladies used to sit together every evening in their local park and talk non-stop.  One day they were sitting together very, very quietly.  A gentleman – who walked past the noisy group every day – was surprised to see them sitting so quietly.  He enquired about this, to which one lady replied, ‘Well today we’re all present.  So we don’t know who to gossip about…’  

Crash Bang Wallop

Vacuum cleaners are sometimes nicknamed dust busters because they suck up all household fluff and muck.  However, I’ve developed a slightly paranoid sense of reasoning and decided that vacuum cleaners might actually be human being busters.  Six months ago, whilst rushing through the housework, my vacuum cleaner collapsed against my chest (yes, my wobbly bits) and put me in hospital having to have an operation. Then earlier this week, Father Bryant did his own vacuuming and promptly had a nasty accident which saw him end up in hospital too.  His accident was slightly different to mine in that he carried his vacuum cleaner up the stairs in one hand and took lots of paraphernalia in the other. Thus loaded up, he set off up the staircase.  It was a disaster waiting to happen.  And happen it did.  He got all the way to the top when the vacuum cleaner’s weight caused him to stumble. He went to grab the handrail but couldn’t on account of being loaded up and, like a tree being felled, crashed head first down the staircase with everything clattering down on top of him.  Obviously, in hindsight, he realises it was a stupid thing to do…more haste, less speed…and all that jazz.  It’s a horrific thing to happen at any age, never mind when you’re nearly eighty-four. So now he has a fractured clavicle and a mangled arm, but fortunately not a broken back or neck.
          The moral of this tale is…never underestimate your dust buster. Personally I think they are evil contraptions just waiting to catch you out. As I said, I’m now slightly paranoid about vacuum cleaners.  After my accident, I meant to get rid of this particular model as I think it has a design fault.  You only have to knock the back of it and the wretched thing collapses in half, the handle and hose walloping whatever or whoever is unlucky enough to be in its way.  Meanwhile Father Bryant’s vacuum cleaner remains upright and unbroken…unlike him.  Mother Bryant has since had a second safety rail installed, which is all well and good provided you remember to leave your hands free in order to hold on to it.  When I popped round to visit my parents earlier in the week, Mother Bryant proudly showed me the new handrail before going up the staircase herself.  Did she use the handrail?  No.  Instead she went up in her usual way, like a monkey on four limbs.  She insists it’s safer for her to ascend in this way.  So what’s the point of a second handrail?  Which reminds me.
          Recently a man went to a Health and Safety conference where one of the letters from a sign fell and hit him on the head.  Oh, the iron E…
         

Glorious Greenwich

I’ve blogged about Greenwich before but, you know what?  It’s such a great place I’m going to write about it again.  Now that the Spring weather has put in a few appearances, Mr V is more receptive for weekend outings.  I love Greenwich for its beautiful expanse of park nestling by the River Thames, whereas my husband loves Greenwich for its numerous coffee shops.  So on the recent Easter Sunday, we took a jaunt to Greenwich to dovetail a brisk walk in the sunshine with a coffee stop or three.
          ‘Don’t be surprised if nothing is open,’ I said to my husband.
          ‘What gives you that idea?
          ‘Well, it’s Easter Sunday.  A holy day.  The supermarket and local shops are closed, so I’m assuming the coffee shops will be shut and the entire place deserted.’
          I couldn’t have been more wrong.  In fact, I’ve never known the park to be heaving with so many people…families out strolling, dogs rushing up to other dogs to engage in ritualistic bottom sniffing, kids on trikes and bikes, teens on scooters and skateboards, couples on rollerblades, granddads and grandmas sitting on benches, picnickers sprawled on blankets, and optimistic sunbathers baring milky limbs to a watery lemon sun.
          Walking through the park took time due to the unbelievable volume of people. As we finally exited through the park’s south gates, we found ourselves caught up in a human tidal wave that swept us down a side street and over a pelican crossing.  We managed to break away by the Cutty Sark.  The historical clipper ship was very much open for business and doing a roaring trade.  Alongside, a bustling market was in full swing.  All manner of nationalities were manning stalls heaving with international cuisine and locally sourced produce.  Ducking down alleyways we checked out numerous antique markets and then, down another narrow cobbled street, the indoor market.  Gaily covered tables loaded with arts and crafts greeted us before merging into yet more food stalls catering for every taste.  The dishes were all sorts – from exotic curries to strange and colourful gluten-free veggie dishes for awkward people like me.
          Walking along scoffing spiced lentils, brown rice, red raw cabbage and a mash of beans was exhilarating…mainly because my husband, a die-hard meat eater, had no inclination to help me out (his words…I prefer to call it swiping).  I can’t tell you how many times, in a restaurant, Mr V polishes his meal off in six seconds flat only to then start on my dinner.  And don’t get me on to the subject of desserts.  When I first met my husband, he categorically told me he wasn’t a pudding person.  For me, pudding is the highlight of a meal.  Bring it on!  Chocolate goo, treacle sponges, anything with custard – oh yeah baby, let me at it!  On our first restaurant date I was slightly taken aback when Mr V’s spoon crossed the gap between us and found its way into my Eton Mess.
          ‘Just having a taste,’ he smiled winningly.
          This was followed by his spoon whizzing backwards and forwards like a speeded-up film.  Back then I was a little more tolerant.  These days I growl like a guard dog.
          ‘BACK OFF, MATEY.  Put your hands IN THE AIR and walk slowly away from the apple crumble.’
          Anyway, I digress.  Greenwich Park, and my vegan dinner, was a sunny Sunday afternoon delight.  Which reminds me.
          A troop of French Foreign Legionaries were marching through the desert. After marching for days, their water supply ran out and they were on the brink of collapse. Then suddenly, as they staggered over the crest of a large sand dune, they came upon a wonderful sight – a market place full of colourful stalls with banners flapping in the breeze.  The legionaries were delighted and ran towards the market. At the first stall, they begged for water. ‘Sorry,’ said the stall-holder, ‘but all I have are my delicious puddings made with jelly, sponge, a cream topping and sprinkled with hundreds and thousands.’ Undeterred, the troops moved on to the next stall, again pleading for water. ‘Sorry, but I only have puddings made with jelly, sponge, a cream topping and sprinkled with hundreds and thousands.’ The legionaries moved on to the next stall, and got the same answer. They soon realised every stall had the same thing.  Finally, one of the stall-holders took pity on them. ‘There is an oasis not far away,’ he said, and pointed them in the right direction. Gasping, the legionaries set off for the oasis. As they were leaving, one of the legionaries turned to the others and said, ‘What a peculiar experience.’ ‘Hmm,’ said another, ‘definitely a trifle bazaar…’
 

Manic Organic

First off, I have to warn that for some reason, when typing the word organic…well, it keeps proving tricky.  Bizarrely, my brain and fingers keep producing an entirely different word.  So if I start to enthuse about the taste of my pesticide-free fruit and vegetables as orgasmicoranges and mushrooms, please forgive me.
          As a very reluctant cook who recently made the switch from supermarket shopping to on-line farm shopping (no, just food, no tractors or bales of hay), I’ve discovered all sorts of vegetables we’ve never eaten before.  Suddenly cooking is a bit of an exciting adventure.  I’ve said that before, I know.  Last time it was because I’d bought a slow cooker. For four weeks I was enthralled.  And then the novelty wore off.  But right now, I’m in the grip of a fresh foodie romance, and like all new romances, it’s exciting!  So now I know why Nigella Lawson gets carried away by cucumbers and constantly touches her melons.
          My search for organic food began in the local supermarket. There I found some tiny bunches of broccoli and…that was it.  My sister suggested another supermarket (who shall remain nameless).  Here I fared slightly better – four apples, a small bag of potatoes and carrots, and a box of granola, all at astronomical prices.  Frustrated, I turned to Google.  There had to be an organic farm shop somewhere that delivered to towns like mine.  And there was!
          I discovered Abel & Cole where you can buy not just everything organic but also ‘welfare’ meat which assures the animals have led a good life and are pretty much sung to when their time is up.  I’m not a meat eater, but my family are.  Nor am I tempted to try meat again, especially after seeing a viral video on Facebook where a factory worker was injecting heaven-only-knows-what into tiny chicken carcasses to make them look bigger and more succulent.  That video was the turning point in overhauling what ended up on the family dinner table.
          Discovering Abel & Cole was a bit of a double-edged sword. On the one hand there was an abundance of meat, fruit, veg, salads and basics for the larder, but on the other it all required cooking from scratch.  When the delivery man arrived, I was overwhelmed with two emotions.  The first was joy at lifting lids on beautifully packed produce.  The second was fear.  Yes, fear.  As I peered into a paper bag containing what I thought to be giant pieces of ginger stumps, I wondered if – excuse the play on words – I’d bitten off more than I could chew.  Especially when I found a little label informing me that the giant ginger stumps were, in fact, Jerusalem artichokes.  I’d never eaten them in my life, never mind cooked them!  But a family needs feeding, so I set about cooking.  Day One resulted in a simple beef casserole (hello hotpot!).  Day Two, a sweet and sour chicken.  Day Three, lamb infused with fresh rosemary with a side accompaniment of Jerusalem artichokes, potatoes and asparagus roasted in herby olive oil.  Yes, simple stuff, but BIG stuff for me.  I’m used to peeling the lid off a ready-made meal, not peeling a mountain of veg.  But so far it’s actually been enjoyable!  Even more amazing, the weekly food bill was about one-third cheaper than the supermarket.  So I will be returning to Abel & Cole’s website and ordering again.  But don’t worry, Nigella, your job is safe.  Which reminds me.  My husband usually tells me I feed him like a God.  Every meal is a burnt offering…
 

Beautiful Broadstairs

Last weekend my husband suggested we ‘blow away the cobwebs’ – an apt expression given that, outside, the wind was blowing everything sideways.
          ‘What do you have in mind?’ I asked cautiously.
          ‘A drive to the coast.’
          ‘Ooh, Brighton?’  I love Brighton.  It’s the town where I was born and which, later, became home-from-home for the first twelve years of my life.  I immediately had visions of fish and chips on the pebble beach, getting blown to pieces on the pier and, later, taking refuge within The Lanes amongst wonderful arty-farty shops.
          ‘Ah,’ Mr V pulled a face, ‘I was thinking more...Broadstairs actually.’
          ‘Broadstairs!’ I said in horror.  The last time we ventured there was surely twelve years ago, if not longer.  It was definitely a pre-pooch era because we used to drive there virtually every weekend in summer with three over-excited children.  After a full-on week working in London, packing up the car and piling down to Broadstairs with buckets, spades, water-wings, sun cream, picnics, towels, changes of clothes, flip-flops, sunhats, but also raincoats, umbrellas, woollies and wellies in case the weather changed without a moment’s notice, is something I tend to look back on with…well, exhaustion.  The photograph albums show three happy children beaming into the camera.  They don’t show the haggard woman who was behind the lens with arms like stretched spaghetti while the husband drove round and round the seaside town vainly looking for a parking space.  In fact, my only other memory of Broadstairs is when my step-daughter and son wanted donkey rides, and then proceeded to have a nervous breakdown once the poor animals set off along the sandy beach.
          ‘It will be different now,’ my husband looked at me with beseeching spaniel-eyes.  ‘It’s pretty much just the two of us these days.’
          ‘You’re right!’  I stood up, fire suddenly in my belly.  ‘Hang on.  I don’t have to pack a picnic, do I?’
          ‘Nooooo!  We’ll go somewhere nice for lunch.’
          ‘What are we waiting for?’ I cried, grabbing my coat.  ‘Lead me to Broadstairs.’
          Fifty minutes later we were there (it would have been double if I’d been driving).  We found a parking space with ease and walked along the empty promenade, before walking down steps to the almost deserted beach. Despite the strong winds, the sea remained virtually flat.  Pale grey waters lapped sand so yellow it looked like God had sprinkled it with turmeric.  The only thing that disturbed the uninterrupted expanse of beach was a trail of paw prints belonging to a couple of dogs off their leads.  They barked joyfully, paddling in the shallows as the wind whipped their long ears up above their heads.  And talking of dogs, we passed three beagles.  I mean, what was that all about?  Some sort of sign that it was time to get another?  And suddenly a man appeared from nowhere with…yes…a beagle, and got chatting to us.  I stooped to make a fuss of his pooch who, the owner informed, was a stud dog and went to Crufts every year.
          ‘One of the bitches is in pup now, if you’re interested.’  He pressed a business card into my palm.  My fingers curled around the stiff rectangle of paper.  I would love a puppy, but when there are so many unwanted beagles out there needing a forever home, a pup makes me hesitate.  I gave his hound one last cuddle, before we carried on strolling along the winding promenade.
          Funny how memories of the kids here suddenly became rose-tinted, rather than hard slog.  In front of us was the bit where they made umpteen sandcastles with massive moats. To the right was the area a small funfair used to be.  The kids would beg for just one more 50p to have just one more ride.  And to the far left the donkeys would be tethered, patient and resigned to lumbering up and down the beach with child after child on their backs.
          I sighed and inhaled the sea air deeply, just as my stomach growled with hunger.
          ‘Lunch?’ asked Mr V.
          I nodded.  How very nice not to be battling to eat a sandwich while seagulls swooped and tried to mug you of your cheese and tomato on brown.
          We went to Prezzo and sat in their beautiful sea-facing conservatory, warm and cosy, while outside the stiff breeze rattled signposts and shook hanging baskets full of spring flowers.  And there, at the very next table to us, sat the actress Gwyneth Strong, better known as Cassandra from Only Fools and Horses, having lunch with friends.
          ‘Don’t stare,’ said Mr V.
          ‘I’m not,’ I said indignantly, while doing exactly that.  I can tell you now it’s the hardest thing in the world not to look at somebody when you know you shouldn’t.  ‘And now you’re staring!’
          ‘I know. I can’t help it!’
          It took all my willpower not to say, ‘All right, Cass?  Where’s Rodders?’  Although I suspect she’s heard that one a million times.
          So we did our best to pretend we hadn’t noticed this celebrity and concentrated on staring at the sea instead.  Which reminds me.  What did the seaweed say when it got stuck to the bottom of the sea bed?  ‘Kelp!  Kelp…!’