I don't teach anymore, except I do

I really miss teaching. On any given day, I would be teaching the medieval feudal system, the slave trade economics, The partition of India, the power of potraiture in Elizabethan England, the Home Front, Napoleons' foolish stance in Russia, the Terror of the French Revolution. On top of dealing with Year 9 tutor group squabblings and VERY SERIOUS (not really) fallings outs, parents evenings and the odd shoplifting tutee. Arguing politics with 18 year olds, arguings nuclear war with 13 year olds. On one memorable occaision taking a bunch of 13year olds down a nuclear bunker and coping with 2 of them freaking out. Plus the markings, the coursework, the planning. I miss it.But son has reached the "why?" stage. I now teach more than I ever did, except regrettably it is often in subjects of which I have little knowledge. Here are the questions from today.
Why are rainbows? (explained)
But then why are there rainbows without rain? (refraction explained)
Are tv's sorts of rainbows ?(bluffed)
Are the white clouds just empty rainclouds? (explained, just about)
What is the dust in the air for? (Brownian motion explained)
Why can I breathe some things and not some things? (Lungs explained)
Why can only sharp things chop things? (states of matter explained)
But can things like logs change like ice does? (dumbfounded at expanse of matter understanding, bluff it. Then remember carbon and wood)
Can everything change the way it is? (cannot think of example that can't. Curse lack of physics knowledge)
Can I move as slowly as glass? ( Curse using glass as an example)
And it goes on.
And I never go to the loo alone like I did at work, or get paid, or get holidays. Seeking out science books now.

buttons and fury

Having got through the funeral of my nan this week, I have been pondering exactly what she taught me over and above all the tiny , everyday things she taught me. I am sat counting the buttons from my inherited nan button box, and thinking. These buttons were money in "shops", treasure for pirates, and something to use for barter. I am so happy to have them.


Most of all, I think Nan taught me that you have to consider other people's feelings, and a sense of duty. Well do I remember one Saturday morning when my cousin Rachel and I had been taken erranding with Nan. This involved doing the shopping, not just for Nan and Grandad and More Nans (my great gran. I couldn't get my lips round Great Gran, so settled for More Nans), but for various elderly ladies situated nearby. It was Rachels and I's great chore to go into their house and give them their shopping and endure a half hours conversation with the ladies. One time, Rachel and I created an awful fuss about the way the house smelt, which was, basically, of elderly unattended lady with a continency problem. We were, what, 7 ish? Nan made her excuses from the antimacassared confines of the lady in questions lounge,and royally rounded on us on the green outside. How dare we? Did we not consider the feelings of the lady? I do not remember the exact words, but I do remember how utterly ashamed I felt. Consequently, I don't think Rachel or I ever complained again about going on those missions with my Nan. And every time I see a neighbour who is elderly now, I speak to them, and build a relationship. I even have a relationship of sorts with the flourescent hatted Special Brew drinking pensioner who sits by the Police Station every morning as I pass to go to playgroup. The kids say hi to her, although I wouldn't let her breathe on them. I can only think, now, how those women must have treasured my nan's visits, and the chatter of us younger ones, in lieu of their own, more neglectful relatives. And how generous of my Nan, her whole life, to do this. Even in her 80's she worked in a Toq-H charity shop. Her thought for others makes me astounded.

All of the grandchildren probably have a Nan-Fury to remember. I bet my Cousin Tim remembers the one that he got for trapping my thumb in the sunbed.

The other thing she taught me is that every generation has its' own angers. What made my mum furious with me (nose rings, pink hair) really didn't bother my nan at all. "She'll calm down" Nan would say, and then tell me about the time mum bunked off school. As an adult now, I can see how cleverly Nan was a median between Mum and me, how she negotiated the pitfalls, and how she encouraged us all to meet halfway. Even if Mum and I were not talking, Nan would phone and pretend not to know what was going on, and somehow sooth everything.


I would like a legacy for Nan. I want a physical one, something in the garden for me to remember, but the best one would be if our family stuck together more, the way Nan would like us to.

My nan 1920-2010. Mother, Nan to 4, Great gran to 6.

My nan died this week. Here is the speech I will say at the funeral, attempting to speak for the grandchildren. I miss her so much.

It is very difficult to know where to start talking about Nan, there are so many memories from the near and distant past. We are all lucky, the cousins, to have had a nan for so long that there is so much to talk about. Perhaps the most shared memories amongst all the grandchildren are of the long weekends we all spent at Nan and granddads and More Nan’s houses, all of us together, while Nan took on the responsibility of shepherding us through a weekend of sleepovers and cousinly arguments. Having two children of my own now, I can only boggle at how much nan did having all of us around.
We all used to love sleeping round Nan’s house. The huge dinners, the staying up late, and special drinking chocolate. Nan shouting up the stairs for us all to be quiet or she would send Grandad up, it was past our bedtimes. Grandad would come grumbling up and we would all settle down with giggles. Not because Grandad was scary, but because that was Nan’s final warning, we knew, and any more nonsense and there would be trouble. Sundays was cooking day, and nan was patient in letting us mess up her kitchen and giving us all bowls to lick out and fight over. We all loved her food so much it was all I used to write about, week in week out when It came to writing my “news” at primary school on Mondays.

So it was that I remember on a holiday home from university asking nan to write down her recipe for Stew and Dumplings, and steamed treacle pudding. She was at a total loss. She never measured anything, she said, just mixed up the ingrediants how it felt right. I pressed her to measure out the handfuls and so I could know a guideline. It wouldn’t work, she told me, it depended on the weather and day of the week. I was enormously frustrated, but she was right. An excellent and instinctive cook, she knew when to allow for humidity, and outside temperature in her pastry and dough work.
Thinking of what to say about nan, it struck me that her lack of need to stick to a recipe was a good metaphor for how she handled her grandchildren. She knew the vital ingrediants for shepherding grandkids through life, and through her, so did we. Good manners, listening to each other, patience, saying sorry, and treating everyone equally were paramount. Nan was a stickler for sorting things out and behaving well. But around these vital ingrediants, she had the instinct to allow her grandchildren recipe to alter when needed. She treated us all alike, but allowed us to be ourselves. She let us depart from the rules to have fun, as long as we returned to them. She remembered that spice was a vital ingredient too, and let us muck about supposedly “unattended”, with a beady eye all the same. She knew she didn’t want her grandchildren to turn out hard and unpalatable, so she encouraged fairness and kindness. Occasionally she added a little salt and threatened to “shake us all up in a bag together” (I never figured out what that meant), but always, her skill and patience helped us turn out alright. All the cousins have the shared memories of nan, and granddad, crammed into a caravan with us all at Clacton, charging around at the park, Nan telling us to behave, collecting pine cones with us, or feeding Smiley the fat dog snacks even though she shouldn’t. But we all have separate individual memories too, of a nan that was just ours, because that was how nan made you feel, part of a whole, but unique and special to her too, something she would fight for when needed. I know that nan and I shared conversations about many things, (we shared a love of gardening and thrift), and she encouraged me to be the best I can. I know the great-grandchildren can say the same too. I hope I can say as much for my grandkids should I ever have any, if I learnt anything from nan, they will be able to.

I hope I can manage to say it all. Funny the things I keep thinking I'd like as nan-keepsakes. She always had superb nails, and the biggest array of polishes for them. I'd like the box she kept them in, it was a Saturday night treat to select nan's polish for her. And the tan ceramic mixing bowls, I would love to use one in my kitchen and bake something she did. I know I will not be able to smell the lavender in our garden this Summer without thinking of her.

Month long menus and sewing machine graveyards.

(pictures to be added: poorly camera!)
I STILL need to finish my quilt. I have done the quilting, and as long as you don't look at the back, it is ok for a first ever job. Besides, Stella is too young to quibble. But now I need to bind it, and the thought of yet more hand sewing is making me wince. It got smaller and smaller as I tried to straighten it, so it is at least one month quicker to bind than it would have been had I had a straighter eye.

I MUST get a machine going. I have inherited 3. One handcrank Jones, one Singer and one New Home. None of them work, apart from the handcrank, as very little goes wrong with that mechanism, but it is totally seized up and needs oiling. I know I should just give up on them and get ebay them, put the money towards a new machine, but they are just such nice old things, I like them regardless of the space they take up and the frustration they cause me. I have promised one more fiddle with each of them, then they go to ebay or freecycle, where maybe someone will love and use them.

So I have tweaked and tweaked to get my weekly shop consistantly at around 40-45 quid. This time, I have gone for the full monthly. I've only mentioned dinners, but the shop includes sandwiches for lunch 3 times a week, and freezer lunches from the previous weeks dinners 4 times a week, plus cereal and fruit for breakfast.All veg comes from the allottment blokes and is of a negligible cost, as are eggs from the bloke opposite. All meat comes from the butchers van that visits, cheap cuts are ordered the previous week. God, I sound so 50's.It remains to be seen if knowing your dinner for a whole month will be as boring as it sounds. (All recipes are generally heavier on the veg and less on meat. So if a recipe calls for 500g meat, I use 250 and keep the rest in the freezer. DH eats a lot of meat but the kids only a little and me likewise. Not using too much meat keeps costs down)
Week 1:
Mon: chicken and leek pie (using leftover chicken)
Tues: Macaroni cheese with hidden veg and pork chops
Weds: Gasman's stew from Jamie Oliver. Want to slap him, like to eat his food. Whilst slapping him.
Thurs:Paella
Fri: Fish cakes and veg
Sat:Moussaka
Sun: slow cooked lamb stew from Nigel Slater (using cheap lamb neck)
Week 2:
Mon: spicy pork and noodles
Tues: Sausage and veg casserole
Weds: Tomato bean and bacon stew
Thurs:Chicken and butter bean casserole (from the fragrantly annoying Tana Ramsay)
Fri: Chilli
Sat:Cornish Pasties (from the superb Hairy Bikers, not annoying, just ordinary and tasty)
Sun:Steak and Kidney pie (from my nan)
Week 3:
Mon: Goulash
Tues: Cannelloni with spinach and Ricotta
Weds: Lamb burgers and salad
Thurs:Pork, apple and juniper casserole
Fri: spicy chicken and fruity cous cous (basic marinated chicken baked with couscous)
Sat: Fish pie (whatever 500g x 2 is cheap in the fish van)
Sun: Lamb stew with pearl barley (The Nigel Slater again, everyone loves it so much it's on twice)
Week 4:
Mon: Whore's pasta
Tues:Jacket spuds, radish and orange salad and coronation chicken
Weds:Sausages and puy lentils with baked field mushrooms
Thurs: Lamb chops and baked aubergine and tomato layer
Fri: chicken kebabs and salad with rosemary focacia
Sat: homemade pizzas, spinach, egg, tomato, chorizo and olive using Jamie Olivers recipe for the dough.
Sun: Baked marmalade gammon with baked potatoes and salad. Gammon is fantastically cheap and not just for Xmas.

Here is the recipe for Coronation Chicken, a terribly 70's dish, but one that is a guilty pleasure. The kids like it, and I do too. Serves 4 and makes 4 sandwiches the next day.
25g butter
1/2 finely chopped onion
3 tbsp curry paste
2tbsp tomato puree
100ml red wine
1/2 lemon juice
4 tbsp apricot jam
300ml mayonnaise
150g greek full fat yoghurt
6 cooked chicken breasts (I steam them)
Cook the onion in the butter, then add the tomato puree, curry paste, lemon juice and wine. Simmer and reduce the sauce (for about 5-10 mins). Add the mayonnaise, yoghurt and jam, mix up and blend if you want it smooth, if not keep it lumpy like I do. Slice the chicken into pieces, stir in the sauce, and eat with a big salad and jacket spud. Some people like sultanas in it, but that is just to make an odd recipe even odder. Yum. In a 70's way.

Education, no puppy, and poorly nans

I have been un-posting, as I've been visiting my nan in hospital, necessitating a trip only to be told they don't allow children in the ward, meaning a sorely disappointed great-grandmother had to do only with her grandaughter, instead. I am very worried about her, grateful to still have a nan (she is 90) but so worried I might not have. However, her stringent gossiping in a loud voice about all the other ward occupants heartened me, she is hopefully going to be fine.

I have been pondering what a Conservative win would mean for me job-wise in the next election, and as such have studied their education manifesto. I will be back at work post-kids in 2012, and maybe under the Conservatives. Conservatives always give such an earbashing to current history teaching, one would think that being a history teacher under them would be a wonderland, but no. My main worry is their emphasis on setting and streaming. As a history teacher, you are in position to see what mixed ability teaching all the way through really does. ALL other subjects strip children down into lower, intermediate, and higher at GCSE, so all GCSE teaching EXCEPT history is streamed. History has a "one size fits all" paper, so classes can be mixed ability all the way (although some schools will stream regardless). I can honestly say hand on heart that a "higher" child has NEVER been dragged down by the lower in their class, in all my years teaching. However, I have seen many children dragged UP by the simple virtue of having high expectations of them, and seeing their peers do well. In a lower ability class, how many times would a student have the chance to hear higher level discussion? In a mixed, I taught group work so that the higher ability would impart knowledge to lower, thereby learning themselves, and teaching others. I have seen students deemed "lower" in other subjects come out 2, even in some cases, 4 , grades higher in history. I could go on, but this says it all. It's by Peter Dixon.



Oh bring back higher standards-
the pencil and the cane-
if we want education then we must have some pain.
Oh, bring us back the gone days
Yes, bring back all the past...
let's put them all in rows again - so we can see who's last.
Let's label all the good ones
(the ones like you and me)
and make them into prefects - like prefects used to be.
We;ll put them on the honours board
...as honours ought to be,
and write their names in burnished script-
for all the world to see.
We'll have them back in uniform,
we'll have them doff their caps,
and learn what manners really are
...for decent kind of chaps!
So let's label all the good ones,
we'll call them A's and B's-
and we'll parcel up the useless ones
and call them C's and D's.
We'll even have an E lot!
And F and G maybe!
So they can know they're useless,
and not as good as me.
For we've got to have the stupid-
And we've got to have the poor
Because
If we don't have them...
Well, what are prefects for?

There is a debate to be had about behaviour in class, but that is different. Behaviour is not down to intelligence, I've had clever and dimmer kids misbehave. The Conservative answer of Army officers in class is another matter I will address, when i've stopped laughing........
And the no puppy bit? Easter Sunday was spent at Wood Green animal shelter, from which we returned animal-less, no, not even with a small animal that would die soon. Hard hearted mum wins the day. No house training of animals until the kids are house trained. 10 at least.

Time and motion mum

I have been thinking lot lately about how much time I do and do not get to myself during the day, where time goes, and how I should prioritise it. I do not give a fig for a tidy home, luckily, but I do need a hygienic one. I do not relish playing the stupid dinosaur game a million times in a row, but I know it is beneficial for the kids. I absolutely detest playdough ("here's another sausage mummy, look, look, LOOK" "You know what? Make something else") but I like it better than cleaning the loo and finding son's weird boy wee has corroded the fittings AGAIN. I am stuggling, in short, to balance the hygiene/ dutiful mother equation, as well as feeding them where necessary. And husband, of course. He gets the 30 minutes at the end of the day. Unless I have an episode of "Flashforward" to watch, now "Being Human" is ended.

So here, in the manner of the original time and motion pioneers, is my last 24 hours. They measured the units of time and motion in therbligs, the creation of Frank and Lilian Gilbreth, the original Industrial psychologists. I like that it is their surname backwards, with the TH treated as one letter. Maybe they were more fun than they sounded. Either way, you probably know them from "Cheaper by the Dozen" , made into a film. They were the parents with 12 children, who ran their house on industrially efficient means.

11.45: go to son's room, his "feet are peeking out" the duvet, a terrible thing he cannot rectify himself, apparently. Sleep.
12.50: Daughter needs me to fish dummy out from under the bed. (SEARCH)
1am: locate it. Spend 10 minutes persuading her it IS the ruddy yellow one. (FIND)
2.30am: Son is "all shivery" and needs some juice. Take temperature, sense he is bluffing post-illness the other day, and tell him to sleep. Listen to dramatic sighing of son from my room. (INSPECT)4am: Daughter is trapped with a leg through her headboard. Extricate her, sleep, sort of. (POSITION)
6am: Kids get up. I moan. 6-8 is a rush of feeding, dressing, washing, getting out appropriate toys for kids to distract them while I shower. Wave to husband as he gleefully leaves for work. (ASSEMBLE)
8-8.10 I shower, quickly, before entering son's room to confiscate toys which have now become weapons. Dry myself and dress haphazardly with whatever is to hand. (Normally, on a playgroup day I leave the house at 8.30 to get to playgroup, drop son off, take daughter to Toddler group, then pick him up and home for 12.30.)
8.10-9 I make a cup of tea and leave it to go cold while I deal with getting shoes on daughter who likes to say "no, I do it" when she manifestly cannot. Simple tasks take ages. Engage in debate with son as to hat wearing. Yes, it is sunnier but it is also cold. Put in a wash, sort out airing cupboard airing wash from yesterday into piles. Son, daughter, me, him, note: no ironing pile. (POSITION ASSEMBLE)
9-9.30 Kids go mental in garden. Daughter, who needs to get in, refuses the buggy. Son, who should walk, wants it. Long, pointless debate only solved by happy appearance of rubbish trucks which provide distraction. (TRANSPORT LOADED)
9.30-11: I visit post-office, grocers and bank for stuff to fill in, cook, and cry over. Kids buy bits of tat for 10p from charity shops, then lose them instantly. I retrace steps to get tat. Visit bakers, walk slowly home with both kids out the buggy, admiring every woodlouse, ladybird, and twig, and exclaiming "Mind that, it's dog-poo". (PRE_POSITION FOR NEXT OPERATION)
11-11.45: hang out washing. Cook kids lunch. We all watch the terrible "Go Diego Go" whilst eating. Brief silence. (RELEASE LOAD)
11.45-12.15: deal with the inevitable poo aftermath of lunch. Realise I too need the loo. do this with an audience of 2. "Do you need the paper yet mummy?" (RELEASE LOAD 2)
12.15- 12.45: wash up, chop veg for tea, hoover downstairs and mop up milk from floor, real culprit unknown, as both kids now have the talent to lie. (GRASP<>

12.45-1.15: relative peace, if mind numbing boredom, of reading the ladybird "Jack and the beanstalk" 4 times. No, I do not know how many real giants there were. No, Jack probably didn't kill them all. No, adults are tall, not giants. (UNAVOIDABLE DELAY)

1.15-2.30 Quality play with kids. This means playing with the toy cars and stupid fairy boot house. (UNAVOIDABLE DELAY)

2.30-3.45 (yes, that long) taking son round and round the local paths on his bike (recent aquistion, newly learned) pushing daughter on trike and saying "steer as well as pedal! No look out!" (GRASP HOLD POSITION)

3.45-4.30: cook kids tea, and husbands for later, and cake. (GRASP HOLD ASSEMBLE UNAVOIDABLE DELAY)

4.30-5: eating. Pleading to eat the vegetables. (UNAVOIDABLE DELAY)

5-6: chilling out playing games on pc, reading and playing terribly boring dinosaur board game and drawing. INSPECT

6-6.30 Pre bath, get in washing. Whilst kids are running around in the nude, fold and put washing in airing cupboard. Put away set of washing from the airing cupboard. Curse washing. Bath two kids. Argue for 15 mins about hair washing. I win by dint of being taller and armed with a bottle of water. SEARCH FIND SELECT GRASP POSITION INSPECT
6.30-7.15: thankfully dump kids in front of Cbeebies and wash up dinner stuff. Eye wine in fridge. PRE-POSITION FOR NEXT OPERATION

7.15-7.45: bedtime stories and plea bargaining. GRASP HOLD POSITION TRANSPORT UNLOADED

7.46: glass of wine and sewing. REST TO OVERCOME FATIGUE

Husband not in yet, likely to arrive home 30 mins before I go to bed tipsy at 10pm having unpicked the last bit of quilt.

There's not a lot of sitting down there, really. I sat down more teaching all day. And got to poo without an audience. What strikes me is that I am not very good at either side of the equation. The big housework has to wait for weekends, the kids never get undivided attention because a) there are two of them 15 months apart and b) I have to do maintenance cleaning almost perpetually to avoid being buried in debris and dying of disease. I do not understand how women iron as well as all this. How women managed in the days before washing machines (and well I remember my nan's twin tub and the sheer noise of it) and super hoovers I don't know. Maybe I sit and attempt to sew the kids mangled toys and quilts of an evening to show them I love them despite saying "hang on, i've just got to do this" so much. Maybe I should teach them to hoover.

meal planning, not life planning

In a bid to further hack away at our monthly expenditure, I have spent the last few months avidly borrowing recipe books from the local library and trying things out on the kids and spouse. I have been learning the art of MEAL PLANNING (for which, this book has been enormously useful). Yes, at the start of every month I look at the accounts, I look at the cupboards and the freezer, and sit down armed with recipe books to plan those meals. My method is to cook BIG 3 times a week, this leaving me with 3 portions to freeze and use as lunches or teas for me and the kids the following week or week after. The Sunday (or Saturday) roast or "big dish" provides the ingrediants for one or two dinners that week. This is a method that the fabulous Marguerite Patten (right) advocates in her book "How to cook", which despite its' age is a grat guide to eating in season and with thrift, although I have not attempted any of the older offal recipes involving brains and tripe, I have memories of my great grandmother trying to persuade me of tripe boiled in milks delicacy which have quite put me off.

There are no sweets, no extras, and all the veg comes from the old bloke down the road who has a huge veg growing back garden. Lately, in the "hungry gap", this has meant a lot of potato, leek, turnip and Urrgh swede. I have started using nowt but bicarb and essential oils to clean, and this has also helped cut costs without affecting the cleanliness of the house at all. In fact, i Think it's cleaner, and it smells less chemical. Once daughter is potty trained, I can shave more pennies off.

This weeks shop came to £45.00, which was pretty good, I thought. Here is the menu. Playgroup days I make a packed lunch of sandwiches, hummus, veg sticks and cake. This weeks cake is one-stop-apple-cake, i'll pop the recipe on at some point.

Mon: (playgroup day lunch), Leftover fish pie and veg for tea

Tues: Cheese and ham puff pastry bakes with salad for lunch, Pork fried rice and veg for tea, spiced up extra for spouse and I.

Weds: (playgroup lunch), spaghetti, spinach and squash bake (from the annoying Tana Ramsey, but a good recipe despite the godawful photos of her prancing with an apron on that make me want to slap her)

Thurs: Minestrone soup for lunch (last weeks leftovers), venison sausages, mash and caramelized onion gravy with greens for tea. Friday: (playgroup lunch) and Chicken Maryland for tea, this Jamie Oliver recipe. (left)

Saturday: Spanish Omelettes for lunch and homemade Cornish Pasties and veg for tea.

Sunday: Roast Chicken, roast veg and Eton Mess for Sunday Lunch and beans on cheesy toast for tea! (my fave, really.)I will get a chicken and leek pie out of the chicken, plus soup stock and spousal sandwiches for lunch.

All this tightness will save me money. Except that it won't, as having saved some, I will spend it on this lovely Janome, thus breaking my vow not to buy new stuff this year. But sewing machines are exempt, in a clause I just made up. So, food is organised, life is not. Childrens' illnesses continue unabated, with one wheezing and one sneezing. I need to fence the garden, sort out raised beds (i'm freecycling for building materials), plant seeds, clean all the garden toys, patch the paddling pool, and become a Lib-Dem councillor to stop them building 1,000 houses on the field at the end of my garden, but that's another blog.

charity shops and home

I have been away from the keyboard looking after a poorly son, post Hinchingbrooke hospital visit for asthma and pneumonia. He is ok now, and the hospital were great. I, however, am still getting up all night to check he is still breathing.

But onwards...I made a pledge to myself to be thrifty this year. (Hence the slowly evolving scrap quilt, right,which is the first and LAST I will ever sew completely by hand).This weeks' meal plan got three meals and a stock from a chicken, and the suet is coming out for those filling puddings. In part this is due to utter necessity, with spouse cutting down to 4 days a week and the general economic future looking less than shiny. But it's also down to a feeling that now we live in the back of beyond, with nary a posh shop in sight, it should be easier to cut back on unecessary spending and impulse buys, and live a tad more sustainably. To that end, I made a vow to try to buy all my clothing secondhand wherever possible, and to make do and mend in every possible circumstance. I also promised that I wouldn't buy anything that wasn't needed. This is made infinitely easier by not having a credit card or a card that works on the internet, necessitating a request to borrow spouses card if I want to buy anything. Asking "Can I have your card to buy myself this glittery frippery?" tends to keep one in check.

I hadn't counted on "needing" fripperies, but I do. Spouse and kids and I lived in rented houses for years that came with all the plates, knives etc, plus furniture. So when we moved into our own house, we purchased the sofa and entirely necessary stuff, but nothing flippant. We had no knick knacks, no ornaments. Aside from books and the usual crap kids make. And, I want some. But I promised not to buy any.

Except I modified my promise, and it now reads "except for a fiver a week at charity shops". I am blessed and cursed in equal measure in that Chatteris has no shops to browse in apart from charity shops, unless you count the newsagents. This is my booty thus far....

1950's Butlins moneybox. Probably the best find, I am tempted to sell it as I ebayed it and one came up for £25.00, but I like it too much I think. 90p from the shop.

Weird vase made of palm or something? and two glass receptacles that spouse says look like urinary sample bottles but I like, because in the morning they throw nice colours on the walls. 25p vase, quid the 2 bottles. Cambridge Ware vase and bowl, approx 1950's, 2 quid. I love these, they are of an age with our house and all wood is good, I think. You can see Ely cathedral from this window.

Portmeirion "Totem" coffee cups and saucers, X 12! For the princely sum of 3 quid the lot. Worth about 5-20 pounds each. Gosh! I am selling half, keeping half because they really are very nice things to have, I like to sip black coffee from them whilst surrounded by screaming children and feel a little bit 1960's. A Codd Bottle, probable 1850-ish, 10p. In negotiation with buyers of these things for some quite good money, any ebay funds will go to Hinchingbrooke hospital as a thanks for saving my blue-tinged boy.

A little pot for holding ailing parsley, 25p

pancake haters

It IS late to be wittering about pancakes, but this post comes belatedly for 2 reasons. Firstly, we have been more or less flooded in, hemmed in in our house, and with two small kids this has meant much shouting, much mess, and no time to write anything other than "help" on bits of paper I released out of the window, hopefully. Secondly, my two children detest pancakes and so there is not much point wittering about them.

Until, that is, the weekends sodden traipsing around the metropolis that is Chatteris and it's myriad charity shops threw up some old Ladybird "Well- loved Tales" series 606, in other words, the ones we had as kids. A quick browse on ebay shows that these are now in the grip of one serious nostalgia price hike. A copy of Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty in good nick will cost you upwards of £40.00 now, and even my modest, less popular finds are worth about £15.00. I rooted out, for the princely sum of 20p the lot, "The Billy Goats Gruff", "The Enormous Turnip" and "The Big Pancake", hence the blog. I had forgotten just how weird the illustrations are. The Big Pancake in particular is quite grotesque. Here are the family of "seven hungry boys" and their mother (no father mentioned). The mother is clearly desperate to shut them up and makes them a big pancake. The boys amuse me, as they all seem to be more or less a similar age. Possibly Quintuplets and twins? But then, on second glance, either the family gene pool contains a lot of material or this woman has had offspring with several different fathers, very rapidly. Ginger, brown, black, and yes, even a prematurely grey haired child, this woman has the full range. And a natty selection of coloured bow ties to dress them in. Anyway, I am sure you know the story. The pancake does not want to be eaten, and runs away. This utterly disturbed son whose dislike of pancakes is ow compounded by the fact that they might rise up and speak to him. The whole of what looks like Bremen chases after it, failing to catch it, in an immensely repetative manner, until it is tricked, thankfully, to it's doom by an intelligent pig. the reader thanks the Lord they can stop reading. Charming, and i'm ebaying it.

I also found this fabulous recipe book for 10p. I can't wait to try out these pancakes.

Or this brussel sprout mousse.

Look at the spread here. No wonder there's a bottle of wine open (Leibfraumilch, naturally), drunk is the only way you could eat it.

And so, struck with inspiration, I abandoned the pancakes and instead opened 2 tins of cling peaches, one of the only fruits my lot will eat at the mo, and made a clafoutis instead. I didn't take pictures, I just ate it, and so did they.

Clafoutis

Measured in cups. I have a measuring cup set and find it so useful.

1/2 cup sugar

3/4 cup milk full fat

3 eggs

vanilla extract

2/3 cup flour

fruit

Blend it all up, bar the fruit till it's a nice batter. Put half of it in a shallow dish, then the fruit, then the batter, then bung in oven at 350 for about 45-55 mins. Eat with ice-cream, or by yourself secretly before anyone else gets it.

Rhubarb Rhubarb

Well, the market today in Chatteris had rhubarb. I love rhubarb. I love the way it makes your teeth feel squeaky, a property it shares with halloumi cheese. I like the weird texture of it, I like the hugeness of the leaves in a garden, a tropical native plant look for the Fens. Most of all I love the fact that it's pink, a lovely sharp citrus pink that just about brightens my cupboard in these months of turnip. I know we are all meant to eat seasonally now, but there is only so much swede I can take, so I allow a little bit of rhubarb forcing into my life. So I grabbed 4 big sticks and gave them to daughter to brandish all the way home. Rhubarb is more interesting than you might think.

• It is a film by Eric Sykes, in which the only dialogue is the word "rhubarb". Really.
• It used to be more expensive than saffron, imported from the banks of the River Volga.
• It was first cultivated in the UK in Oxford, as a medicinal plant, in 1777
• In 1835, the Chinese Imperial Commissioner put a stop to the trade in tea and rhubarb, opining that without rhubarb and tea, the foreign Western barbarians would surely die.
• Rubbing the raw end of a piece of rhubarb over burnt pots will remove the encrusted black stuff.
• Rhubarb root dyes your hair blonder.
• Rhubarb leaves make a good insecticide.
• Ambrose Bierce described rhubarb as "the vegetable essence of stomach ache".
• Rhubarb chutney goes extremely nicely with lamb.

I have two snotty coughing children. I can tell they are not well, as they are arguing even more than usual and sleeping in the day, although not at night. Son even fell asleep on the naughty step today. Rhubarb crumble with proper (tinned) custard is about as comfort food as you can get. Here's my recipe.

5 good size sticks of rhubarb, about 400g

2 apples, chopped

handful of sultanas, presoaked in orange juice

1 tsp ginger powder

for the topping:

60g soft brown sugar

1/2 tsp cinnamon

1/4 tsp nutmeg

1/4 tsp ground cloves or 3 whole cloves to be removed later

60g butter, melted

130g muesli

Oven: gas 4, 180 degrees

preheat your oven grease your dish. Cook your apples, rhubarb,sultanas and ginger till tender to the fork (about 5 - 10 mins) in about 4fl oz of water or orange juice, making sure all the sugar is dissolved, and plop into your dish. For the topping, stir all the dry ingrediants together, add the butter, and stir till it's crumbly and the butter has touched it all. I like to use a mesli with a high oat/ grain content and some nuts. Plonk it on top and into the oven for 15-20 mins.

And off topic of rhubarb, here are 3 things I am extremely pleased with this week. The first is a great invention, and has saved me from endless trips up and down the stairs since it arrived on Monday (from Dunelm mill, a tenner well spent).

The second is the first quilt top square I finished that actually looks any good (although this is all relative...). The third is the booty I returned from Ely with. Lots and lots of Michael Miller fat quarters.

Foolproof kid fart food for a rainy day.

It rains a lot in the Fens, and even if it isn't raining, it can often be too damp to let the kids outside for long. Fen mud is essentially peat, and turns to slop all too quickly. Today it has been hailing on and off, and once son's friend had gone home, there was a long indoors afternoon to fill. I can only stand reading "The mole who knew it was none of his business" so many times, or indeed, watch the "Come Outside" sewage episode for so long. Son is poo obsessed at the moment and find farts incredibly hilarious.

I therefore decided to create his favourite meal, designed espcially for the sweet palate of my children, and their inevitable amusement as they start to fart.

I present you with Meditterranean "Shepherds" pie, a.k.a "blow-off pie" and the failproof Banana Fart Muffins, to be eaten with custard.

Everyone knows how to make Shepherds pie. This version is constructed the same, but is altered for the sweet tooth- gravy hating children of my family. You'll need: lamb mince, 2 cans of tomatoes, chopped, selected veg (I like pepper, courgette and carrot, but you can do it with anything. Aubergine is nice), garlic, herbs, about twice as much squash as potato. If there's too much squash, it somehow doesn't mash as nicely, too runny. Feta cheese, or any nice crumbly cheese. Lancashire is nice too. Splash of wine for the gravy. In my house there's always a bottle open, or about to be opened that night anyway.

I don't actually like the finished dish, too sweet for my palate, but when I need them to eat vegetables, this is how they get them. You know how big the dish you always use for this sort of thing is, so you know what amounts you need. I usually use 500g mince and eye judge the rest so I know i'm getting a nice balance of topping and meat.

Fry up your mince with a couple of cloves of chopped garlic, add rosemary and thyme. To that, add chopped (and as for me, I need to disguise those veg, so for chopped read "grated") courgette, carrot, and red bell pepper. I also add a little onion powder as my two won't eat actual onions. My two go through olive loving phases, so I add these when they are in phase. Once softened, add two cans of chopped tomatoes, a splash of red wine and leave to simmer. The essential "blow-off" element is provided by the addition of some butter beans, either ready cooked from a can or lovingly soaked, cooked and made by yourself. You can use any beans, even baked beans. I know it seems odd giving both a carb topping and a bean underneath, but my two love it.

Then boil up a mixture of butternut squash and potato to use as your topping. The squash makes it sweeter than usual, you can also use sweet potato if you want. When mashing, add a little pepper, olive oil, and feta cheese. Plonk it on top of your meat mixture, bake for 30 /40 mins, gas mark 6 with a sprinkle of extra cheese on top if you like. You don't need to serve it with anything, it's a meal by itself.

The Foolproof banana Fart Muffin is a delicious "afters" smooshed up with a bit of custard. The kids can easily help with this and it is essentially kid-proof if they "help" too much. You will need:

200g plain flour

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon of bicarb (The fart powder. Or is it just my two it does it to?)

3 mashed old bananas

150g caster sugar

1 medium egg

75g melted butter

pinch of nutmeg, cinnamon and ginger

It's what I call a "2 bowl" do. Sift the dry ingrediants together. In another bowl, mash the bananas, and add to it the beaten egg, and melted butter. Get the kids to smoosh it about for however long. It doesn't matter if some lumps of banana are left, I quite like the bits chunky. Add the sugar and give it all a good stir. Then add it to the "dry" bowl, mix to a batter like mess (it's quite sludgy looking, like a thick batter). Add to the muffin cases and bake at Gas 4 / 180 degrees for 25 to 30 mins (less for a fan oven). They do store well, but act more like a banana bread than muffin, getting progressively stickier, and denser. I like them that way. You can add chocolate, fruit, anything to this receipe, it all works.

And then sit back and wait for the farting to start. It's a laugh a minute at my house.

Kickstart kids

I spent this morning in the fog and damp at Mepal Motocross track, thinking about just how crazy i'd have to be to allow my son onto a small bike when he's five. This after seeing 20 5 year olds (yes, really) rip around a track at full speed and cut each other up like crazy, exhausts firing. Some of them were girls, too. Son remains transfixed by all things motocross, and this morning has merely added to his obsession. I was transfixed by the parents of the kiddy motocrossers more than anything else. How on earth must the mums feel as they strap their kids into their leathers and helmets and then send them off in the sand? Presumably they feel ok about it, if the yells of encouragement were anything to go by, although there were fewer mums than dads watching.


But it set me thinking about risk and children and how things have changed. Remember, in the 80's, Junior Kickstart was a national obsession and it was seen as a healthy pastime to send your kid off on his motorbike and let rip over obstacles. Now of course, health and safety and fear of kid injury have put paid to this kind of programme, and we have instead the nonsense of kids trying to get on X factor. Personally, i'm thinking the kids who aimed to leap over cars on their bikes in Kickstart were better off. I used to disappear off for whole days on my totally unreliable pony, once returning to the yard unconscious slumped on it's neck, after a rear had knocked me out on a tree branch. To the horses' credit, he did bring me back without tipping me off, but only after roaming for hours. The roaming around and freedom from adult involvement, and also the element of risk (Shall I attempt to leap the fence? Shall I ever be able to stop the sod from bolting toward the new bypass? Will I die if he tries to cross it? ) enlivened my days and encouraged me to dare to do things that i'd never have done under supervision. Sometimes the encouragement of adults isn't helpful. I've watched my kids get up from falls when they think they are not observed without a peep that , if watched, they will often weep copiously at. Maybe the chance to damage ourselves through risk taking is what helps us form parts of our character.



Of course, this is all so much hot air when you see your kid plummet from a motorbike, i'm sure. One small rider fell today, and got the biggest cheers as he plonked himself back on a finished the laps regardless, 2 behind everyone else. The sort of strength of character I'm not sure I have. Maybe being 5 helps. I was reassured by the ambulances at the ready, but not enough to ever encourage son to do it.



It's also too darn expensive. There were some serious spenders in evidence. It seemed to me to be the socio-economic lower levels version of formula 1, it's very very expensive but people make do to do it. It's defiantly working class too, there are no plummy accents in evidence and no healthy food outlets, it's successfully resisted any middle class incursions. People watch from the backs of their quad bikes and the girls reapply make up continually in case they catch the eyes of any young male riders. Accents are strong, cars are big and swearing colours the air. There are no dogs smaller than mastiff and none less scary looking. Dress code is relaxed. "Fen Massif" for young men, with the obligatory can of Red Bull and fag, and for young ladies the hair is never less than blonde and the foundation generous. Men are big with relaxed stomachs and mums stay out of the way in the trailers. There is one burger van and it's a quid for a cup of tea. In short, it's not televisual. This will never get onto tv again, at least not the terrestrial channels, because the only working class people that are allowed to show their faces are on soap operas, laughed at in X-Factor style shows, or sniggered at in Channel 4 sitcoms, "Shameless style". Poor people are allowed to be good at football, as long asthey're grateful and pick up a WAG, thus supplying the tabloids with fodder, but that's the only sport (aside from maybe snooker? If that is a sport? ) that they'll get seen doing. The other local sports round here, shooting, trapping, and driving your souped up car into the forty-foot drain, will of course, also never get on tv. It's a shame, because the sight of these lads and young men (and ladies) ripping round the track was exhilarating, very skilful, and brave. The young girl pictured here, flew round, and then proceeded to strip her bike. It might have been abit dangerous, but I think a 7 year old girl who can strip down a motorbike, is a girl i'd like to meet.
fen glossary: forty foot drain: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forty_Foot_Drain

While the husband is away......

Wife is doing the DIY (a toddler bed, a chest of drawers, and 4 pictures hung, with nary a swear word or drop of blood. Efficient, but not as exciting as Husbands way, born of a determination never to read an instruction booklet), while Husband is in the USA, Florida round about now. Basking in 75 degree heat and cooking whole hogs at the Lakeland Pig Fest, a barbeque competition of more than 30,000 strong.

He is there with the Bubba Grills team, (pictured, with their many trophies from last year) http://www.bubbagrills.net/index.html to pursue a business venture which hopefully will result in big pieces of pig in our chest freezer and some kind of Southern cooking thing going on in the Fens. The Bubba Grills guys are great, they've already been on tv with Jamie Oliver, as he used a lot of their recipes in his last book, and dedicated an episode of the tv series to their cooking style. He gave them a signed copy though. They'll be able to ebay it for some of the millions he made from the book sales.
Husband has plans for world domination with them. He is in his element, shooting guns, eating pork and talking barbeque sauce, in a place where his bulk is positively skinny by comparison to the Georgian norm. He has been overwhelmed by their generosity in inviting him and sharing their ideas. Speaking earlier, he proudly informed me that he is now a Redneck, on account of failing to 30 factor his lily white neck.

He's roasting whole hogs today, and in his brief telephone chat informed me of his devoted wrapping of 3 thousand jacket potatoes in foil. Hopefully they will have a successful competition, they did last year. By all accounts, these men know how to roast a hog. I can't see why people Fen-wards wouldn't like to eat a pig that way too. There's certainly enough USa airbases and, of course, the fabtastic Peterborough Truck Fest. (

3 types of rain is not enough

There are 3 different types of rainfall. This jolly tutorial explains them.

http://worldlywise.blogspot.com/2008/01/types-of-rainfall.html



3 types is not enough.



In the Fens, you can see the rain coming. Curiously, you can often see it better than the Ramsey MET office, which persistantly and stubbornly refuses to believe the weather it can see coming. For miles. You can quite clearly see the beginning and end of the rainfall, the darker, sometimes glinting tunnel of rain from that cloud 30 miles away (yes, you really can see for thirty miles from my garden). And yet, some wayward synapse in my head will tell me, "You don't need the umbrella. Like you can carry it with the buggy anyway".


So I am a familiar drenched figure in the town. The woman who remembers the raincover for the children, but who resolutely shuns hats. And has eyebrows insufficient in density to channel the fall of rain away from her (once) mascaraed eyes. As such, I have knowledge of rain and these are the rain truths.

• All rain is worse when pushing a buggy.


• Tiny wee droplets of fairy like looking rain get you bone wet faster than anything.


• "Mist" in the Fens is "rain" anywhere else.


• You know that washing line? Fenwomen, put it away. From September until May. Below sea level, damp is damp.


• When it says "Flood Warning" it really means it. And quick.


• No matter how hard the rain, how flash the flood, the amount of dog shit in the town will not have decreased by 9am the next morning. It will still get on your buggy wheels, but hey! Now you have puddles to push through instead of scraping it off over the sink.

On the other hand, when the floods freeze, you can do this....

Welney Marshes recently held ice skating festivals. If I could do it, i'd have gone. Maybe as a Fenlander I should learn.

This little clip is a lovely video from the Guardian website of the skating December 2009.http://www.guardian.co.uk/travel/video/2010/jan/14/cambridge-fen-skating

The politics of Toddler groups when you are an incomer.

I think, here in the Fens, you stop being an "incomer" when your grandchildren have died in the house you lived in, or thereabouts. For such a wide open space, the Fenlanders themselves are very closed in. So much so, in fact, that the first mothers prepared to risk talking to me at the local toddler group were themselves incomers of a mere years standing. they had come from the far reaches of the NEXT VILLAGE DOWN, and were therefore unused to the ways of the natives, and desperate enough for a chat that they risked scorn in talking to me as I scanned the room to check my kids were not hitting anyone.



Everyone knows the rules to toddler groups. (Note these rules apply only to village or small town toddler groups of a predominanatly White British character. Other more multi-cultural groups have their own social strata )Or at least, mums do. There are never any dads there, and if there are, nobody must talk to the poor sod. Each toddler group must include the following social groups.



A) The posh mums who attend merely as a social function. They do not work, drive 4X4's and ignore their children as they bite and scratch others, sitting in a small huddle talking about tanning salons while their offspring rip their OshKosh jeans fling babies out of bouncy chairs. They do not get their haircut in the town/village, but the nearest city, and pay more than £50.00 for it.

B)The younger mums who nip outside for a fag and have several children fathered upon them by the nearest Barracks. These children are impeccably dressed and extremely violent, giving rise to many shouts of "KYLE! Get your arse here NOW!" They too ignore their children and cluster together discussing her down the road who got pregnant with her over theres' squaddie.

C)The small seam of middle class mothers in whimsical dress who are the only ones playing with their (always) one offspring, trying to stimulate them with the Roatry club funded group toys. They say "Erm, Kyle, please stop doing that. Where's your mummy? Kyle? Kyle?"

D) People who have moved from London to have a better way of life. They stand confused, shocked, and shunned.

E) Childminders. They sit and drink coffee and direct the 4 16 year olds they employ to look afer the 10 crazed kids they "childmind". They are fat and smell of dogs.

F) Everyone else. The three people who are too busy breastfeeding, chasing 2 or more children, or weeping to talk to you. They are the only other normal ones and it will take 8 weeks for you to exchange 3 sentences, because it goes like this:

"So, whereabouts are you from?"

"Oh, really? That's really interesting, I used to...hang on....what, now? ...a poo? Ok. I'll be back in a minute..." (gone for 2 weeks)



Other sundry rules include:

• Paying to enter means as many biscuits as you like


• When you smell poo, you must say loudly "I can smell poo" and sniff your own childs nappy before loudly proclaiming "no, it's not her". The actual culprits mother must be outside having a fag and arguing over maintenance with her squaddie partner.


• No toys must be complete.


• There must always be a sign up saying "IF NO-ONE OFFERS TO HELP THIS TODDLER GROUP WILL CLOSE!!!!!!!!!" but nobody ever does help.