a thrift life

Over the past few weeks, I've been busy sorting things, late Spring cleaning and ebaying for my sewing machine fund. I've been turning my fiver a week on tat to good use. The local Sally Army shop can be a thrift treasure trove, everything is cheap, and if you rummage and are lucky you can find some gems.

Over the past few months, i've noticed a lot of West German 1950's and 60's stuff in the shop. It started with a little Bay Keramik vase I found, and since then i've picked up some Emsa eggcups and bowls too. Emsa is eminantly collectable and very rare, if you see some with cursive joined up script logo, get it, it is pre 1971 at least. Early stuff is very sought after, particularly in the USA. It is just the sort of stuff that gets chucked or given to charity, but 50's and 60's plastic kitchenalia is VERY now, there are scores of collectors who love this stuff. Actually, I love the eggcups. How great is it that they stack up? Then some lovely late 50's Arcopal (very early French shatterproof), just begging for iced cupcakes and serviettes in candy colours, in gentle opalescent glaze. The colour deepens when there is warm liquid in the glass, just darling. And some 1950's USA CorningWare, in blue cornflower, hardly ever seen here and mostly a USA obsession. The Sally Army gets some house clearance willed to it, I have in my mind now a house that was in the forces, moved through France and Germany in the 50's and 60's, maybe friends with a USA family who gave them some corningware. Either way, it's been quite pleasant and sad at the same time to think about. However, the stupendous amount I won for the Arcopal and Keramik vase have helped to ease the melanchony and edged me nearer to my Janome of choice, which was more than my mother was prepared to stump up for, though she has helped!

I have been melancholic, in the true sense. Weepy and fretful, awaiting scan results and so on. I'm all clear from severe nasties, which leaves me with the horrid probable outcome of early menopause. I'm 38! I know it is linked to my thyroid condition, so i'm steeling myself for the worst. I've been referred to hospital again to check me out further. If someone could give me the choice between being baldy and menopause, I would take baldy, I think. I know menopause doesn't have to be terrible, but as i'm so early, and my medication precludes HRT, I can safely say that everyone who knows me would be far happier without me being hormonal, they'd learn to love me bald in preference to having me going crazy at them and then weeping while sweating.

one child booty

Husband took son up to Yorkshire with him today. For the first time since she was born, 15 months after son, Daughter is enjoying the status of the firstborn: mummy all to herself, all day and night! And my goodness, one is SO EASY! She is napping now, I am writing and sipping a glass of wine (naughty!). We took the bus to Ely to avail ourselves of the toy shop there, and have returned laden down, partly because at the back of the toyshop there is a superb haberdashers. I now own, along with a vile looking Barbie doll which daughter weeping, refused to leave without, a cutting mat and rotary cutter and 5 fat quarters that I just picked up and didn't need, but which will now have to be made into something. I have never used a cutter or mat before, all previous efforts have been manhandled using the kitchen tiles as guides, and cut with (whisper it) kitchen scissors! When daughter goes to bed (and i'm expecting that will be late, as a treat we will stay up and watch the recorded Trumptons she is obsessed with, and eat eggy toast with too much sugar), I will fuss and cut and chop the squares for son's quilt. I am making the pattern one rectangle two squares to each patch rather than the nightmare of oddments daughters was. Then I plan to finsih her dolls house. Today I bought permanant markers to do the little plug sockets and switches with, and teeny pots of Humbrol to paint the details with, flowerpots, roof tiles and decorations.

I am stunned at the difference one child makes. We had an entirely civilised cafe lunch, lit a candle in the cathedral (SO cool today in the heat, it was mobbed!) and wandered the market and river. Then we did the essential girly thing of buying her new shoes (she has short fat feet like mine, so there was weeping when the shoes with houses on were too big, but she copes when the silver and pink sparkly sandals came out, sigh. ) Nary a row, nary a squabble and a bus ride to boot. I'm expecting she'll be missing him by bedtime though, and in truth, so will I be. It's too quiet!

Ladybird chickens

I have been amassing a collection of vintage ladybird books, and selling them off on ebay one by one once I can't bear reading them anymore or the kids have lost interest. I pick them up for 10p, good ones can resell for upward of 30 quid. A "Well loved tales" Cinderella series 606D can go for 50 quid or more if it's in good nick. I love the illustrations, they are so evocative of my own childhood. I'm just about to post one off to an ebay buyer, it's "The Farmer" from the "People at Work" series, illustrated by John Berry. Narrating the farming world of the 60's, the combine pictures drew sons' interest briefly before he became motorbike obsessed. I love the drawings of the hop pickers, presumably some rough old cockneys employed at slave wages in yesteryear, but I love best of all the chickens and the text alongside that describes their lovely life in the shed: "In batteries and deep litter the hens are kept warm, well fed and have plenty of light": yes, for 24 hours! See how happy the battery hens are! See how they love their lives in the shed! Forever! Till they die prematurely!

I have a coop waiting to be built. I was hoping for hens this year but we have too much to do beforehand, a fence, a lawn. Our garden is 250ft long but mostly gravel for now as the previous owners of the house had 5 cars and a love of long driveway from the rear access. We stupidly thought it would be a quick job to do a lawn, now we know it will involve a mini-digger hire, which son will love. So the hens are next year. How happy they will be, though, to be garden hens and not ladybird battery hens.

little morrocan-ish meatball stew

This recipe is ideal for me with meat-loving veg hating boy and veg loving meat-hating girl. I simply dole out different bits from it onto cous-cous and hope that meat-loving gets some veg juice that way and veg-loving gets some meat juice that way. It is a bastardised Nigella one, smaller in scope (she always cooks enough to feed a film crew, and they do live with her, I suppose)and less fussy, with the addition of pulses for awkward daughters protein intake, and different veg entirely. I also add the meatballs to the stew to cook, I think it makes them smooshier, if that is a word. I don't normally like her, as I couldn't get over the vision of her sitting in a London bus looking exactly as if she'd never sat in one before, pretending she had, in the last series, and I can't read the chumminess of her books without wanting to shake her. Give me the Hairy Bikers anyday, but she does do the odd good recipe, if you just read the instructions and not the waffle about her terribly lovely life. The only way I would really like her is if she revealed she was bald. Anyway....
To make the meatballs:
1 pack of lamb mince (500g)
1tsp all-spice
1tsp cumin powder
very finely chopped spring onion
1 tsp cinnamon.
1 beaten egg
Really, it's a kids recipe in the sense that even they can do this bit. Smoosh it all up, that's it! Then the difficult bit comes when you have to roll the meatballs up. Usually I would go for bigguns, but in this instance I advise going for teent tiny 1/2 teaspoon sized ones. You should get about 50 out of 500g. Then, a quick flip on either side in the frying pan to firm them up. This takes a short while and I usually end up with about 5 less afterwards as I eat them. Set aside.
For the stew:
1 green pepper
1 yellow pepper
1 butternut squash
1 can chickpeas
1 onion
3 cloves garlic
2 cans chopped tomatoes
1 chicken stock cube or stock from freezer.
1 tsp ginger
1 tsp tumeric

Chop everything up, you want it a little bigger then the meatballs for a nice mouth feel. The squash you can leave quite big as it's nice to have big chunks of it along with the teeny meatballs. Fry it all with the garlic, tumeric and ginger for a wee while till getting soft-ish, then add the tomatos and chicken stock cube, along with a tin can or two of water, depending on how runny you like it. Add the chickpeas, and stir, then add the meatballs and stir. Set it all to a slow "blurp" on the hob and leave for however long you like, really, I usually give it 45-60 mins, but you can turn it off, leave it and reheat it if you like. Serve it with a dollop of cous cous and some toasted pine nuts and pomegranate seeds on top if you want to be posh. There are no pictures because I ate it all before I thought about it.

If you are me, place meatballs and cous-cous in one plate, assiduously removing all veg, and veg and cous-cous on the other, removing all meat. Wonder why on earth I do this fairy-tale like task every meal time. Next week: spinning grain into gold.

Servalan

Ok, I've found a short haired lady icon I like. It's Servalan, evil nemesis of Blakes' Seven, lady of infinite wardrobe and short hair, with big guns. I'm showing my age, but I did love her fighting with Avon ( that's a lady cosmetic provider! But not in a sci-fi series where a box with widgets took up half the story). Me and my dad spent hours in a weird sci-fi fug that my mum just didn't get watching Blakes 7 and the original "v". This lady was a proto Sigourney.

hairless wonders

This week I was shouted at by some boys in a souped up vehicle (shortly, one imagines, to end up in the firty foot drain), who threw the words "lesbian" at me as they sped up the road. Unfortunately, they were going too fast for me to explain the whole idea of sexuality to them, in small words they would understand. Even if i'd held up a copy of "Razzle" and shouted "There's more to it than this, honest!" they'd still not have understood. I wish I could have pointed out to them the remoteness of the possibility of finding a lesbian who has 2 children in the Fens. Or how attractive they suddenly made the prospect of lesbianism seem to one who has a daughter here. God forbid she should be limited to the genepool round here.
The reason for the outburst is my hair, or lack thereof. My hair is currently less than an inch all over, and shorter in places. It is greyer than it used to be, finer than it used to be, and about 2/3 lighter in weight than it used to be. There is none up front, less up top. I am going bald. So I must be a lesbian, for who else would refuse the peroxide lock, the wavy perm, the waist length look? (Small guilty pause possibly, by the weediest boy in the car. Maybe she had (gasp!) CANCER!). No, not that either. Nobody knows why my hair falls out, it could be thyroid disease, or any number of other autoimmune things my body is being tested for, but the fact remains, ladies wihtou hair are WEIRD. And I am very hairless, no body hair and half eyebrows. The first time it happened, I was bereft and wore headscarves and lipstick to compensate, until I realised people thought I was dying and looked sadly at me all the time. Now I just brazen it out, and look strange. But I do have the odd weep in the shower.

Women and hair: we spend years of our lives shaving it off, dying it, tweezing it, wishing it was straight when it's curly and vice versa. With it in the wrong places, we are unsexy. Without it in the right places,we are unsexy. me? I'm sexy when i'm not too knackered from the kids and forget I don't have hair. I struggle to reconcile myself to its' loss, and get a lot of hair satisfaction from daughters flowing locks, but I confess to worrying at how i'm going to approach the Summer months, hatless. I spent an hour looking for sexy short haired or bald ladies on the web and found an odd fetish site (it may come to that yet) or pictures of Demi Moore and that weird one from the Star Trek film. That's it! Ladies who browse my blog: find me a short haired or bald lady I can look at with pride. There's no pic of me, but I might be brave enough soon.

minature gardens, puffers and spanakoppitta

A frantic weekend here already.

I have a fasting blood test designated for Thursday, so I had already planned to make 2 spanakoppitta to gorge on prior to it. Having thyroid disease and some (as yet unspecified ) other autoimmune disorder is a bit rubbish and as far as i'm concerned a weekend of eating cheesy spinach things was my just and right due.

However, before I could crack open the wine and eat more than the crunchy middle bit pictured here, I was on the phone to the ambulance men and women of Fenland to come see to son, who went from ok to REALLY not ok within about 45 minutes. He developed extreme asthma in March for no apparent reason, and this was his second big and very scary attack. The ambulance man and woman were fab, fast, kind, professional, and extremely glad not to be in Peterborough city centre on a Saturday night. They stayed till he was stable and safe, and what lovely people they were. So Sunday was spent in the FANTASTIC cottage hospital-ness that is Doddington, as the paramedics had advised, while son sat so good and sweetly under the nebuliser mask that I wanted to weep. So awful to see a child so willingly submit to a mask because they know they need it. But he is well now, albeit due to steroids and puffers for weeks ahead, and we spent the afternoon making mini gardens and hosting fairy tea-parties. So much fun, making mini-wee things.

And now i'm going to eat ALL the spinach pie.

The recipe is here: and very fine it is too, if I say so myself. You can't just have a little bit. Probably not authentic, and no specific amounts, but this is how it's made in this house.

Ingrediants:

1 pack spinach (usually about 250g)

I pack filo (thawed, usuallu about 6 sheets)

1 pack feta

pine nuts to taste

1 sweet onion.

2 eggs

a good glug of double cream.

nutmeg, pepper, oregano.

Fry the onions till soft and clear. Add the pepper, oregano and nutmeg. Meanwhile, wilt the spinach and squeeze as much water as you can out of it till it is pitiful looking and you wonder what you paid for. That's the way of spinach. Crumble the feta and beat the eggs. Mix the whole caboodle together and shove in the fridge for a bit. Find a nice dish. Butter it. Then melt some more butter, more than you think you will need. Place one sheet of filo in the bottom of the dish, the edges over the side. Your aim is to place 4 layers of spinach / cheese mixture on top of 4 sheets of filo, so divide your mixture into 4. After you've spread the spinach mix, fold the overlap sheet down over it, like making a bed, then lay another sheet down. Brush some melted butter on each sheet as you go. Your last layer, you have two sheets left over to scrunch on the top for topping, add liberal butter to these so it's nice, tasty, and bad for you. Bake in the oven for about 40 mins at Gas 6, or until the middle has set and it's nice and crunchy on top. Eat it all secretly by yourself, or with lambchops.

Fen Runners

Just a quick blog to heartily recommend this book, Fen Runners, to anyone with teens who like a read. Or adults, like me, who like a read too. In my days as a kids librarian, a book that treated young adults with respect was always welcome, and this one, a spooky tale of ghosts, maybes and growing up in a small Fenland town is perfect. Eerie, full of sense of space and self, it perfectly captures the area whilst spinning a tale of past and present in the manner of "Toms' Midnight Garden" , only a wee bit scarier. A rare sympathy with the young, and a good yarn to boot. Makes me want to strap on a pair of "Fen runners" , as ice skates were locally known, and seek out the dykes and the monsters therein myself.

And another recommendation that has popped into mind again is this: "Can any mother help me?". It's come to mind since doing this blog, as so many nice ladies have pitched in and sent me goodies. It tells the real life story of post war women who responded to a plea in a womans; magazine, asking "can any mother help me?". A woman was lonely, stuck at home and going crazy, and as a result of the response, women formed a round robin magazine that spanned decades, and covered domestic life, personal life, politics, everything, in the most interesting way. I felt that I knew the women involved after reading this, and it gave a fascinating insight into the situation of women post-war. Read it!

gravel animal mounds, rabid Tory hating and fat quarters

Since my nan passed, the kids have been obsessed with the idea of burial. Every day this week I have found another farm animal that's succumbed to the toytown Foot and Mouth and has been haphazardly buried in the driveway with a ceremony involving sprinkling bits of my best thyme plant onto its' plastic corpse. Of course, they are children and it's an imporatnt element of play to use it to come to terms with things but finding half interred animals everywhere is beginning to freak me out.

Otherwise, I have been restraining myself from waiting in the Budgens newspaper aisle and shouting at Daily Mail readers "IT'S YOUR FAULT!". I've exchanged emails with our one of two Lib Dem councillors who is optimistic that the coalition will work, but really, where do the two councillors now stand in a sea of blue? I really don't think they'll be upholding the left-leaning (as was) principles of the Lib-Dems (as were) now they're in bed together. It depresses me looking at the new cabinet, grinning to themselves. Nick Clegg has effectively overseen the death of the third party. The new push to alter the number necessary to dissolve Parliament strengthens the Tory hands, not to mention the proposed boundary changes and alteration to the number of MP's, both of which seek to ensure a Tory stranglehold for the forseeable. And for this Nick got, what? A few cursory measures agreed, a cabinet seat, and a positive surety that Cameron will dump him as soon as, leaving us with no credible third party at all. Over 3,000 people rejoined Labour in the past 2 days, and I am betting this defection from the Lib Dems will run and run. If he had listened to the Lib Dem peers and pursued a policy of supporting the minority government in applicable measures, he might have have some credibility left. As it is, he is Cameron's fag.

Anyway, nice things. This postcard sent from sweetiepie50, a fellow fenland blogger. How nice to recieve parcels and post from other Fenland ladies, it makes ones cockles warm. I have found it hard settling here after the bustle of London and Cambridge, this has quite perked me up.

And new fat quarters for sons quilt. Suitable dinosaur, tractor and plane motifs with some nice brights and seagulls to boot. I am thinking of doing large pieces this time round, and maybe I ought to hold off till I get my machine. There is a nice freebie pattern on the Michael Miller page with chunky squares that seems doable, the Paula Prass one. Otherwise I might go freehand again.

Finally, (bit of a curates' egg this post) a recipe for a frugal supper that does just as well cold the next day. It's called Briam and is Greek.

Ingrediants: potatoes, x 2 bigguns

6 garlic cloves, crushed

2 courgettes, sliced

3 assorted peppers, sliced

1 red onion, sliced

as many tomatoes as will cover the top of your dish

can of tomatoes

thyme and parsley

Plonk a layer of potatoes on the bottom of your dish. Slice them first, using the slicing bit of a cheese grater so they are thin slivers. Add some garlic, some thyme and parsley. then add everything else in layers. Between each layer add garlic and herbs. Top off with a layer of sliced tomatoes and a big glug of olive oil, then add canned tomatoes to the top, spread and seal with foil. Plonk it in the oven for 2- 2 1/2 hours at gas 4. I like to add some feta and parmesan to the top and brown it before eating. This tastes lovely cold too. I like aubergine added to the mix but the kids definately do not, so, heigh ho. Smashing with a lamb chop or on it's own with some spinach. Makes enough for 2 adults, 2 kids, and 2 adults and 2 kids the next day too.

eggs, parcels and boobs

A nice day today to assauge some of the election bile i've been feeling. It's like i've had permanent PMT, i've not been able to talk to ANYONE who's the slightest bit blue without wanting to rip their heads off and- well, I won't even say it.

So, some nice things. Bantam eggs. Look at this lovely lot, all different shades and slightly different sizes, a quid for a dozen at the farmers market. They have a much bigger ratio of yolk to albumen than normal hen eggs and as such make the best scrambly egg for the kids. But they are almost too pretty to use. The one at the front is a wooden toy egg, the kids keep trying to trick me.

And a parcel for me from Angela at the Fenland Textile Studio, who has very kindly sent me not just the CD she promised me of the V and A quilt exhibition, but lots of quilting magazines, freebie thread and material to boot! I suspect that, just as when you are trying to give up smoking and someone is always there to offer you a fag and a beer, when you start sewing and quilting there are kind ladies who pop up touting swatches and fat quarters, knowing that you will get hooked. Thanks Angela!

And then 2 hours without the kids. A whole 2 hours with them in a free creche courtsy of our Surestart Centre (PLEASE don't cut them, Cameron, you t**t). They had a lovely time, and I tried very hard to concentrate on the work and not on the tea,coffee and biscuits. I am getting free training to be a breastfeeding peer support worker, the rates of breastfeeding are terrible here and support is sorely needed. I will never forget the midwife who sneakily gave firstborn a bottle without my say so when I hobbled to the loo. If I hadn't have been attached to a drip, and weeping already, i'd have brained her. Thankfully support was available from a peer worker, so he got going despite her efforts. You can't beat boobs. Although I wasn't too sad to hang my boobs up, metaphorically (let's face it, if I did hang them up, they'd look better now), after 3 years of constant milk producing, from one kid to the other without a break. I am very glad I did it, not least because the money I saved on formula can now be put to much better use buying bits of fabric. And pretty eggs.

Just look at this ad arguing for greater rights to breastfeed in public. Of course, it's not from the UK, but Oz. And this one, just fab. We've a long way to go.

pillowcases, votes and wishful machines.

Well, it's a good job i've been practising being frugal, as we enter another Tory era. They were not kind to me last time around, with lots of job loss, pain, and an 80's spent listening to my mum cry and scrape together meals from anything left in the cupboard. I am utterly unconvinced by the "compassionate" conservatism Cameron is touting. Still, we maybe get the government we deserve. I truly feel that many people have started taking for granted the things Labour have given us. A period without tax credits, family credits, help for the elderly, help for the poor, and cuts in education, health and ...er... everything will maybe open up eyes again. Those young people who have grown up taking all these things for granted will experience a rude awakening as they are told to "get on their bikes", and there will be precious little safety net for the middle classes if they come a cropper. This article about the Council Cameron touts as being the model of Compassionate Conservatism says it all. Don't be old, sick, or unemployed, people.

It could have been so different: we are now such a media entrapped country that I honestly believe Labour lost because Gordon simply isn't "media". He's a bit portly, he's got a wonky eye and a weird grin, and he couldn't ( and rightly, wouldn't) roll out his family for the press every 5 minutes, as Cameron did. I feel very sorry for him, he seemed almost a man out of time to me. I tried listening to him on the radio, and avoiding tv, and without the media spotlights he came across as a good orator and deeply principled. The principles I will miss in future.

Anyway, enough already. Onto making stuff.

Pillowcases! My local charity shops punt them out at 20p. As a result I have amassed this fine collection of vintage and cheapo cases. Poor daughter is going to be in pillowcase dresses till she is 18.I am particularly keen on making this dress out of the racing car pattern. I am looking at patterns, I want an adult pillowcase top! Someone find me one, please. Suggestions for easy-sew pillowcase patterns win a quilt made by me and finished in, er......2050 probably, if the last was any guide. Which leads me nicely onto.....

I must get a machine because handsewing takes too long! The elderly ones I have amassed are beyond help, my mum has offered me £150 of filthy lucre towards a new one providing I do all her seamstress jobs. SO i'm on the lookout. Currently veering towards Janome, but as a complete and utter novice suggestions keenly garnered. I will need it to be idiot proof, with easy instructions, the worlds' easiest bobbin loading, and threading, and good support and servicing. It's an investment though, i'll be needing it to sew cardboard into clothing after a few years in the new regime.......

quilt 1, done

Finally finished, the everlasting no-pattern-scrap-insanity quilt. Constructed from scraps, charity shop pillowcases, and old clothes, backed with an old fleece and bound with an old sheet. Randomly put together into a sort of rectangle sized for a cotbed, and wadded with cheap stuff from Dunelm.Quilted with charity shop embroidery thread and sewn by a madwoman who had no idea what she was getting into.

Things I have learned from this:

Next time, i'll use a pattern

Next time, the pieces will be a uniform shape and size, not any-old-wonky

Next time, all the pieces will be of similar material. Stretchy pillowcases and old silk ties are hell to join together.

Next time, i'll use a ruddy sewing machine.

More than three beers means you have to use the seam ripper.

Still, i'm proud of it, my first made thing of size. Now son wants one. By Xmas, maybe.

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