Three weeks into January, Christmas and New Year seem like a half-remembered dream and summer too far off to even begin to anticipate. Even spring feels months ahead rather than just around the corner.
The recent snow and ice prevented an easy glide into 2010. The first full week back at work turned into a struggle, not only against the elements but the whole British public transport network. Those who lived at the furthest corners of civilisation – Kent and Surrey – were stuck at home, unable to move their cars and their trains cancelled. Poor them, they had to ‘work from home’, which entails nothing much more than watching tv with their mobiles and laptops switched on.
Us Londoners had the worse deal. Skidding along icy pavements more slippery than Streatham Ice Rink, we donned wellingtons, scarves, hats and earmuffs. Coats and jumpers normally saved for gardening duties were brought into service for their warmth. A lot of people appeared to be wearing their whole wardrobe bar the swim wear. Fashion was forgotten and the commuters crossing London Bridge resembled the exile scene from Fiddler On The Roof. Every morning, as soon as I got up, I’d peer through my curtains into the darkness hoping to see enough snow to keep me at home and in my pyjamas. It was not to be. The Northern Line for once in its miserable life was fully operational with no major delays. There was nothing to stop me getting to work. Once there I spent most of the day obsessively reading travel and weather reports. BBC weather and TFL websites were constantly open, along with regular phone calls to Harvey at home, just in case there had been a freak fall of snow in Wimbledon that would require me to dash immediately home. No such luck.
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With the snow melted and keeping warm no longer the top priority, I turned my attention to weightier matters, very weighty as it turned out. I’d noticed a certain snugness to my clothes for some time, indeed some had grown so snug that they prohibited all but the shallowest breathing. My choice of outfits had become reduced to a small selection of figure-concealing smocks. This couldn’t continue, Elizabeth Taylor may have spent the last 20 years in kaftans but I wanted a bit more variety to my wardrobe.
Last Monday, as soon as I got home from work I dusted down the Wii Fit, which had been sitting forgotten underneath the tv stand for many months, to take the body test and begin exercising. I stood on the board and waited for it to measure my weight. I had put on 10lbs since the last time I’d stepped on it 154 days before. Disaster! I’d been overweight then, now my Wii told me I needed to lose 1st 8 lbs just to reach an acceptable weight. Reader, it was all I could do to stop myself from crying.
Harvey patted my back consolingly and said it was just after Christmas and everyone put on a bit over the holidays. But I knew this wasn’t due to a few too many After Eights. No, the reason why I was so overweight was because I’d reached a stage in my life a year or so back where I just said ‘fuck it’. I was fed up with constantly worrying about what I ate, endlessly on a diet of some type or other, always trying to shift that stubborn last 10 lbs. Enough was enough, I was going to eat what I fancied and to hell with it. Well look where it got me, 22lbs heavier without having to try. Whilst I sat silently staring into the distance wondering how it all went so wrong, Harvey decided to get on the Wii himself. His results were even more shocking, he was in the ‘obese’ weight range.
Later that evening when we sat down to a dinner of Thai chicken curry with noodles neither of us ate with the usual gusto. We both ate slowly and left some in our bowls when normally they would have been wiped clean with a naan. I felt like a participant on Fat Families, half expecting Gillian McKeith to knock on the door at any minute demanding to inspect our poo.
Needless to say, Harvey and I have embarked on a weight reduction programme. Nothing fancy, simply eating less and moving more. I’ll let you know how it goes.
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Although I may be far from lean, there are slim pickings in my bank account. For most of us January is our poorest month. Why then do all the stores have sales on? Why not wait until we’ve been paid at the end of the month? I’ve seen so many great bargains that I’ve had to disregard because there’s nothing to buy them with, credit cards and overdraft being exhausted.
If you can get a few quid together though, January is a great month for going out. There are so many bars and restaurants - knowing that business in January is slow because people are on diets, detoxing or plain broke – offering 50% discount on food and in some cases drinks. Shame I can only order the salad and diet coke.
Sunday, 17 January 2010
Yule Blog - The 'Festivities'
Christmas Day
Reluctantly I packed up the car, said goodbye to the cat and headed off to my mother’s in Broadstairs. As I settled into the driver’s seat I noticed that someone (no doubt one of the scores of grocery delivery vans that had squeezed down the road in the last few days) had knocked off the passenger door mirror. Merry bloody Christmas.
The journey down was quick, quiet and not unpleasant. Two things I saw amused me; first was a sign at a farm shop offering ‘sprout storks’, the other was a street sign for a road called Poorhole Lane on which someone had rubbed out the ‘r’. It made me laugh anyway.
When I got to my mum’s she asked me how the roads were, I told her they were long, straight and covered in tarmac. She offered me a cup of coffee which entailed asking the same two questions she always asks ‘how much coffee – flat or heaped spoon?’ and ‘One sweetener or two?’ I’ve been taking my coffee the same way for the last 40 odd years yet still she asks, so sometimes I like to throw her a curve ball and ask for milk.
We exchanged gifts. My mum adored the Harrod’s teddy bear, resplendent in his knitted jumper. She clasped him to her with such delight you’d have thought I’d presented her with another grandson. The tapestry cushion featuring a golden retriever came as a bit of an anticlimax, I should have given her that first.
Predictably her gifts to me were less well received, although I think I did a pretty good job of expressing delight. First up was a set of make up brushes. She buys me a set every year but they are always the cheaply made kind that are guaranteed to graze eyelids. This set was no different. Second up was an office diary; however this contained some £10 notes within its leaves so all was not lost. My only remaining present to open was from my ex-mother in law (Harvey’s other Nan). More disappointment in the shape of a shawl – a black, lacy, fringed one that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a gypsy fortune teller. I guess it might come in handy if I ever take up Flamenco lessons again.
Lunch followed. I saved the turkey for Boxing Day when Harvey and Marjorie (the other Nan) were joining us, so we had salmon en croute followed by lemon mousse which we ate off of trays on our laps. Despite this light lunch we both spent the afternoon asleep in our chairs – my mother due to her advancing years and me from sheer torpor.
We were woken by the doorbell. It was a drunk and boisterous Harvey with Marjorie in tow. Within the hour Harvey had managed to escape to a friend’s, leaving me with the two Nans and three hours of back to back soaps to endure.
My mother watches all the soaps regularly but still claimed not to know who was who or what was going on. Between Marjorie and me we tried to explain but my knowledge of the Archie/Janine/Mitchell family saga is quite scant and Marjorie’s descriptions are confusing to say the least, so despite our best efforts Mum was none the wiser.
I’ll give you an example of Marjorie’s mixed-up vocabulary. At one point we were talking about gas and electricity prices when she said that her last gas bill was ‘frantic’. Then, when explaining the lack of furniture in the Bradley’s house in Eastenders, she told my mum that they’d had the ‘baileys’ in. No wonder my poor mother was bewildered.
Marjorie finally left about 11pm and I was able to retire for the night. Another Christmas Day over, thank the Lord.
Boxing Day
Having been cooped up with my mother for 24 hours I was desperate to escape. After a quick bath which I had to share with her electric bath chair (no shower at my mum’s), I put the turkey in the oven on a low light and took off in the car for the short drive to Ramsgate town centre. The town is in decline, it’s not a particularly prosperous area and with a relatively new out of town shopping centre there’s more empty properties than there are thriving stores. Those that do survive are at the bottom end of the high street retailers – Poundland, 99p Store, Peacocks, Wilkinsons etc and of course charity shops.
I didn’t particularly want to go to the shops, I’m actually quite against Boxing Day trading, but it was a cold, wet day and a cliff top walk was out of the question, so I found myself wandering aimlessly around WH Smiths and Boots. As I walked past MacDonalds I was amazed to see that it was doing a roaring trade with queues at the counter. Surely at Christmas of all times people could give that crap a rest? Apparently not.
After an hour or so I went beck to my mum’s. She’d done a good job of disguising the white plastic outdoor table she uses for sit down meals with a jaunty Christmas themed tablecloth (which she’s used every year since I can remember), champagne glasses, napkins and a table centre with candles. Harvey and Marjorie turned up, we broke open the Cava and the festivities began.
After dinner which, if I say so myself, was a triumph, we were slumped in front of the television (i.e. being festive) when the doorbell rang. It was Harvey’s cousin Deborah and her partner Dermott O’Leary (yes, him off the X Factor) - they always make a point of visiting my mum when they are in the area. It is quite surreal to have someone famous off of the tv sitting in your mum’s front room amidst the chintz and antimacassars. We’re used to it now though and he is just a normal bloke like everyone else when he isn’t working, it’s not like he bursts into the room with his arms flung open shouting ‘Hello everyone!’ he’s actually quite quiet.
They stayed for about an hour and left my mum with a present which she opened after they’d gone. It was a CD. Mum looked at the front cover and said ‘It’s Crazy Michael Bubbles. I don’t know that one.’ It was actually Michael Buble’s Crazy Love CD which Dermot must have got him to sign when he was on the X Factor, with the inscription ‘To Thelma, Love Ya! Michaeal x.’ A very sweet thought but completely wasted on my mum who’s still waiting for Glen Miller to turn up and thinks of Paul McCartney as a young pretender. I shall ‘borrow’ it next time I go to see her.
Reluctantly I packed up the car, said goodbye to the cat and headed off to my mother’s in Broadstairs. As I settled into the driver’s seat I noticed that someone (no doubt one of the scores of grocery delivery vans that had squeezed down the road in the last few days) had knocked off the passenger door mirror. Merry bloody Christmas.
The journey down was quick, quiet and not unpleasant. Two things I saw amused me; first was a sign at a farm shop offering ‘sprout storks’, the other was a street sign for a road called Poorhole Lane on which someone had rubbed out the ‘r’. It made me laugh anyway.
When I got to my mum’s she asked me how the roads were, I told her they were long, straight and covered in tarmac. She offered me a cup of coffee which entailed asking the same two questions she always asks ‘how much coffee – flat or heaped spoon?’ and ‘One sweetener or two?’ I’ve been taking my coffee the same way for the last 40 odd years yet still she asks, so sometimes I like to throw her a curve ball and ask for milk.
We exchanged gifts. My mum adored the Harrod’s teddy bear, resplendent in his knitted jumper. She clasped him to her with such delight you’d have thought I’d presented her with another grandson. The tapestry cushion featuring a golden retriever came as a bit of an anticlimax, I should have given her that first.
Predictably her gifts to me were less well received, although I think I did a pretty good job of expressing delight. First up was a set of make up brushes. She buys me a set every year but they are always the cheaply made kind that are guaranteed to graze eyelids. This set was no different. Second up was an office diary; however this contained some £10 notes within its leaves so all was not lost. My only remaining present to open was from my ex-mother in law (Harvey’s other Nan). More disappointment in the shape of a shawl – a black, lacy, fringed one that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a gypsy fortune teller. I guess it might come in handy if I ever take up Flamenco lessons again.
Lunch followed. I saved the turkey for Boxing Day when Harvey and Marjorie (the other Nan) were joining us, so we had salmon en croute followed by lemon mousse which we ate off of trays on our laps. Despite this light lunch we both spent the afternoon asleep in our chairs – my mother due to her advancing years and me from sheer torpor.
We were woken by the doorbell. It was a drunk and boisterous Harvey with Marjorie in tow. Within the hour Harvey had managed to escape to a friend’s, leaving me with the two Nans and three hours of back to back soaps to endure.
My mother watches all the soaps regularly but still claimed not to know who was who or what was going on. Between Marjorie and me we tried to explain but my knowledge of the Archie/Janine/Mitchell family saga is quite scant and Marjorie’s descriptions are confusing to say the least, so despite our best efforts Mum was none the wiser.
I’ll give you an example of Marjorie’s mixed-up vocabulary. At one point we were talking about gas and electricity prices when she said that her last gas bill was ‘frantic’. Then, when explaining the lack of furniture in the Bradley’s house in Eastenders, she told my mum that they’d had the ‘baileys’ in. No wonder my poor mother was bewildered.
Marjorie finally left about 11pm and I was able to retire for the night. Another Christmas Day over, thank the Lord.
Boxing Day
Having been cooped up with my mother for 24 hours I was desperate to escape. After a quick bath which I had to share with her electric bath chair (no shower at my mum’s), I put the turkey in the oven on a low light and took off in the car for the short drive to Ramsgate town centre. The town is in decline, it’s not a particularly prosperous area and with a relatively new out of town shopping centre there’s more empty properties than there are thriving stores. Those that do survive are at the bottom end of the high street retailers – Poundland, 99p Store, Peacocks, Wilkinsons etc and of course charity shops.
I didn’t particularly want to go to the shops, I’m actually quite against Boxing Day trading, but it was a cold, wet day and a cliff top walk was out of the question, so I found myself wandering aimlessly around WH Smiths and Boots. As I walked past MacDonalds I was amazed to see that it was doing a roaring trade with queues at the counter. Surely at Christmas of all times people could give that crap a rest? Apparently not.
After an hour or so I went beck to my mum’s. She’d done a good job of disguising the white plastic outdoor table she uses for sit down meals with a jaunty Christmas themed tablecloth (which she’s used every year since I can remember), champagne glasses, napkins and a table centre with candles. Harvey and Marjorie turned up, we broke open the Cava and the festivities began.
After dinner which, if I say so myself, was a triumph, we were slumped in front of the television (i.e. being festive) when the doorbell rang. It was Harvey’s cousin Deborah and her partner Dermott O’Leary (yes, him off the X Factor) - they always make a point of visiting my mum when they are in the area. It is quite surreal to have someone famous off of the tv sitting in your mum’s front room amidst the chintz and antimacassars. We’re used to it now though and he is just a normal bloke like everyone else when he isn’t working, it’s not like he bursts into the room with his arms flung open shouting ‘Hello everyone!’ he’s actually quite quiet.
They stayed for about an hour and left my mum with a present which she opened after they’d gone. It was a CD. Mum looked at the front cover and said ‘It’s Crazy Michael Bubbles. I don’t know that one.’ It was actually Michael Buble’s Crazy Love CD which Dermot must have got him to sign when he was on the X Factor, with the inscription ‘To Thelma, Love Ya! Michaeal x.’ A very sweet thought but completely wasted on my mum who’s still waiting for Glen Miller to turn up and thinks of Paul McCartney as a young pretender. I shall ‘borrow’ it next time I go to see her.
Saturday, 2 January 2010
Yule Blog Part II - the food issue
Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without the traditional dinner and accompaniments. Which brings me to another repeated yuletide misjudgement, otherwise known as the reverse miracle - rather than feeding 5,000 people with a few loaves and fishes it entails just four people attempting to eat enough food for 5,000.
This begins with the festive food shopping, so it was that on December 23rd I set off on a solo mission to Sainsbury’s Savacentre, armed with a list and a hired Ford KA and a bundle of bags for life as back-up. Two hours, 170 quid and 10 carrier bags later and my work was done.
Back home I ferried the bags from the boot of the car, through the flat and to the kitchen and then crammed the perishables into the fridge in readiness for the big day. I was very tempted to try some of my tasty hoard but I held back, there might not be enough to go round if I started tucking in.
Christmas morning saw me reversing the process, emptying the fridge and filling the car boot with bags of food and drink to take down to my mothers and when I got there, once again out from the boot and into another fridge. But wait, there was something missing, I’d forgotten to buy the sausages wrapped in bacon. My reputation was in tatters, a vital ingredient of the meal was absent and there’d be nothing but disappointed faces around the table. Back in the car for a quick rekkie around the area hope was at hand, the Budgens at the petrol station was open. I grabbed a packet of streaky bacon and the last pack of mini sausages and joined the queue of relieved individuals clutching tubs of gravy granules, jars of cranberry sauce and other forgotten key items.
As it turned out my turkey dinner was a triumph. The M&S starters were also very well received, as was the cold supper. I managed to introduce my mother to some new foods – spring rolls with sweet chilli sauce, lobster mousse, garlic sausage and coronation rice. Although familiar to most people, my mum’s reaction to them was like that of Elizabeth I when presented with the potato – suspicion followed closely by delight. The duck pate with orange was a step too far though and remained untouched.
Also untouched were two Christmas puddings, a dozen mince pies, a box of dates, two boxes of After Eights, three tubes of Pringles, a tub of double cream, a bag of mixed nuts, a bunch of grapes, a bowl of satsumas, a box of Turkish Delight, a tin of shortbread biscuits, a gammon joint and a Christmas cake (except for one slice).
By the time I was ready to return to London, I’d consumed so much food that I could have hibernated until Easter and still have needed to lose 10 pounds by the time I awoke.
So now I begin the year, as always, overdrawn and overweight.
This begins with the festive food shopping, so it was that on December 23rd I set off on a solo mission to Sainsbury’s Savacentre, armed with a list and a hired Ford KA and a bundle of bags for life as back-up. Two hours, 170 quid and 10 carrier bags later and my work was done.
Back home I ferried the bags from the boot of the car, through the flat and to the kitchen and then crammed the perishables into the fridge in readiness for the big day. I was very tempted to try some of my tasty hoard but I held back, there might not be enough to go round if I started tucking in.
Christmas morning saw me reversing the process, emptying the fridge and filling the car boot with bags of food and drink to take down to my mothers and when I got there, once again out from the boot and into another fridge. But wait, there was something missing, I’d forgotten to buy the sausages wrapped in bacon. My reputation was in tatters, a vital ingredient of the meal was absent and there’d be nothing but disappointed faces around the table. Back in the car for a quick rekkie around the area hope was at hand, the Budgens at the petrol station was open. I grabbed a packet of streaky bacon and the last pack of mini sausages and joined the queue of relieved individuals clutching tubs of gravy granules, jars of cranberry sauce and other forgotten key items.
As it turned out my turkey dinner was a triumph. The M&S starters were also very well received, as was the cold supper. I managed to introduce my mother to some new foods – spring rolls with sweet chilli sauce, lobster mousse, garlic sausage and coronation rice. Although familiar to most people, my mum’s reaction to them was like that of Elizabeth I when presented with the potato – suspicion followed closely by delight. The duck pate with orange was a step too far though and remained untouched.
Also untouched were two Christmas puddings, a dozen mince pies, a box of dates, two boxes of After Eights, three tubes of Pringles, a tub of double cream, a bag of mixed nuts, a bunch of grapes, a bowl of satsumas, a box of Turkish Delight, a tin of shortbread biscuits, a gammon joint and a Christmas cake (except for one slice).
By the time I was ready to return to London, I’d consumed so much food that I could have hibernated until Easter and still have needed to lose 10 pounds by the time I awoke.
So now I begin the year, as always, overdrawn and overweight.
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