What chefs do when they're bored

This picture has nothing whatsoever to do with the following post but appeals to my sense of humour.

The other evening I went down to the Falmouth Bookseller, our very own independent bookshop, to support Jo Thomas, a fellow writer who was doing a book signing for her excellent book, “Lost Cornwall,” all about Cornwall’s heritage.

It was one of those cold, wet, windy nights when you’d rather be sitting inside with a glass of wine looking out on the weather, but I drove off to find a road block at the top of the High Street. Never mind, I thought, I’ll go another way.

I drove right round the town, got down onto the Moor and found another road block. Policemen. Crowds of people. What the hell was going on? By this time my temper was not improving and I very nearly went straight home. I could hardly see out of the windscreen, it was raining so hard.

Finally I got down to the car park behind the bookshop and found the last space (hah!) and found you had to pay £1.10 minimum charge. Dear God… But I did.

When I finally got there, Jo was sitting with a pile of books and we had a long chat. Furthermore, I had a very good glass of red wine while we talked. I could even have had a mince pie but I don’t like them – they make my teeth squeak with their saccharine sweetness.

I apologised for being late and moaned about the traffic and was told that it was the first night of late night shopping and the Christmas Lights were being turned on, hence all the crowds and policemen.

I cheered up then (half way through my glass of wine) and watched a procession of children with Christmas lanterns and almost started to feel festive. (This is someone who is allergic to Christmas and realised, with a jolt this morning, that I haven’t bought a single card or present.)

I guess there’s a motto in here somewhere – about persevering and getting your just rewards and all that. In this instance, I was more than happy to settle for a good chat with a fellow writer and a glass of (very nice) red wine.

And, of course, Jo’s book which I got for Mum for Christmas. So I have got a present after all.

Cancer and Books

This was to be about books, but Himself has just had his PSA test results back and his level has gone down from 20+ to 5.6 in six weeks which is brilliant news. (Down is good, means the cancer has shrunk.) So we shall celebrate tonight!

And now on to what I was going to blog about - books that I like – and don’t.

I don’t tend to buy books, I tend to order them from the library, but I notice the title (which I promptly forget) and then look at the blurb on the back, then the first page. I also look at the typeface because I can’t stand a small typeface – not good for the eyes at my age.

I read depending on my mood, also. I started reading Lionel Shriver’s We must talk about Kevin (or whatever it was called) but it was when Himself had just been diagnosed with cancer and I couldn’t handle anything heavy then.

I don’t like thrillers because I get too nervous and can’t sleep afterwards, but having said that I plucked from the library shelves yesterday Meeting Point by Roisin McAuley which is a really good, fast paced murder mystery which I’m really enjoying.

I prefer not to read hardbacks, because they’re difficult to read in bed which is where I do most of my reading.

I tend to read mostly women and a lot of American and Canadian writers. Irish, too. (What does that say about me?!)

Being about to hit 50 (next year), books about 30 somethings trying to find Mr Right have rather lost their appeal. I loved Bridget Jones but I tend to avoid books with bright pink covers and young things that like shopping. (I’m allergic to shopping so that doesn’t have any appeal either.)

Humour is very difficult, I find, but I loved Jenny Cruisie’s books or the ones that I’ve read so far. Of course she’s another dog lover which I have to say goes a long way in my book (sorry).

So come on, what do you like?

(By the way, RT and I are hoping to have part of our writing meeting this morning in the writing cafe in Penryn if Himself gets back with the car. Will report back if we do.)

A reading meme

I have been memed by RT about my reading.

Total number of books owned – thousands over the years. They come and go except for the old favourites.

Last book read
Boy in the World by Niall Williams

Last book bought
The moment you were gone by Nicci Gerrard

5 meaningful books
HARNESSING PEACOCKS by MARY WESLEY. A story of great originality, wit and imagination. Lessons for us all.
NEVER CHANGE by Elizabeth Berg. It’s never too late for anyone to fall in love, but if they die, you mustn’t give up. Life is for living.
RACHEL’S HOLIDAY by Marion Keyes. A bittersweet tale of addiction.
WELCOME TO THE WORLD BABY GIRL – anything by FANNIE FLAGG is worth reading
A SPOT OF BOTHER by MARK HADDON. The agonies of a dysfunctional family.

I have to tag five people who are –

Crystal Jigsaw
Rilly Super
Liz Fenwick
Lane
Mother at large

And a PS. I've just started the new novel and need a name for a dog. A young collie-cross. Any ideas? Oh, as aptly pointed out by MissU, it depends who owns the dog. It's the older, sprightly lady who is in her late 60s/early 70s. I thought of calling the dog Fred, after Fred Astaire, but think he needs to be a bit more imaginative than that. She is an ex-dancer, so - no, he can't be called Rudolph...

Noisy villages and ageing

It's very noisy at my mother's house, surrounded by fields and orchards, deep in the Devonshire countryside. I woke early to let Mollie out and was struck by the early morning racket that us townies don't have. The raucous squawk of a pheasant across the fields; the rusty gurgle of next door's hens; a pigeon's persistent coo. In the eaves outside our window, a family of sparrows twitter from their nest; above it all a cow's long drawn out bass moo. I opened the door and was struck by the heady rich smell of summer roses; the fresh aroma of dew on grass, cool and wet against hot feet.

Upstairs, Himself was also awake and threw his book on the floor. 'It says it's his debut novel,' he said (pronounced 'day boo'). 'He should take up windowcleaning.'

At times like this I want to hold time still. On the outside he's 66 but inside I know he's really a six year old boy, and I want him to stay like that. I never usually think about our age difference (18 years) but sometimes it hits me and I panic, want him never to get any older. I shut my mind to that grey area, try not to think about that bit of our future, for what's the point? I look at my mother, nearly 80, who looks like a young girl at times. I watched Himself as we listened to Just a Minute yesterday and thought, yes, there's that six year old. What is age, after all?

Dreams and Portents?

As I write, I am surrounded by chaos, otherwise known as packing and the animals are nervous. Buster is behind me, lying on the bed looking suspicious while Moll is in the yard sitting on the table, keeping an eye on me while I write in case I make a run for it. We’re only going to my mother’s for the weekend, and most of the clobber is the dog’s. Bowls (2), toys (box of), bed, food (biscuits and tins of, water etc. Rather like having a baby, though at least I don’t have to worry about baby wipes, nappies and change of clothes. After all, Moll is a teenager now.

The journey to Devon takes most people two hours, but for us it’s at least four given stops for a) Mollie’s bladder, b) mine and c) walks for Moll. Today it’ll take even longer as Himself wants to stop in Plymouth to see a secondhand music shop to see if he can sell his lovely old cornet. If anyone reading this is interested in buying a cornet, get in touch quickly. It’s silver, was made in East Germany in the 1950s and is in excellent condition, having been lovingly cared for all its life. With this extra stop, I reckon it’ll take us about 5 hours.

My mother asked us to go up ‘as it’s my wedding anniversary.’ I agreed feeling somewhat unnerved. My father died over 25 years ago. I don’t even dream about him any more.

This morning I woke up at 4.30 with a hot flush – or flash, as my sister in law from Vermont calls them. Much more descriptive. I’d been dreaming about one of my brothers who knew he was dying from cancer. As you can imagine, I was terrified. He didn’t look like my brother – why is it that people in dreams rarely do, or is it just me? But I knew that it was him and he was worried about what was going to happen. Unsurprisingly.

I told Himself who said, ‘Christ, Flowerpot! Can’t you dream about something proper like romping sex?’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ll try and get my thoughts in order next time.’

As I lay there with the duvet off, sweating, while my heart beat returned to normal I wondered - where do dreams come from? Was this an omen of something terrible that was due to happen to my poor bro? I thought of him and the three children, his wife, the worries that they’ve had already. I pictured helping to bring up the children, supporting a distraught sister in law. I couldn’t imagine my life without either of my brothers. Not that we see much of each other, but we’re always there for each other. What would I do minus a sibling?

Then I realised that in the book I’m reading – Wicked by Jilly Cooper – one of the nicer teachers has an inoperable tumour on his back. Phew! After that, there was no hope of getting back to sleep but at least my bro is saved.