I’m currently catching up via Sky Plus with the latest episodes of the new Dallas (heck, it’s like it’s never been away! I adore S’wellin’.), waiting for Downton Abbey to return to my telly-box, and running a Spyware check on my laptop.
My schlepptop seems to lurch from one virus to another these days. And for someone who doesn’t download great balls of *&)T from the vast bowels of t’Internet, I don’t know what else to do.
Currently I’m also delivering cupfuls of hot lemon, ginger and Manuka honey to the bedroom, as hubby languishes there, coughing, spluttering, and just generally making the house a more unhealthy place to be.
The lemon and honey sore throat recipe comes courtesy of darling Rosaria Williams. I made it up, she says it can be left in the fridge for up to two months, and it’s amazing. I’m already making up a second batch. I wonder if it’ll work on the laptop?!
It’s been a long summer. Not hot. It’s been frightfully wet. A bit grey. Some very wearing heat. The midges have thrived. I've been nibbled and scarred over my arms. Wonderful.
I came back from Paris some weeks ago and I’ve got on top of the laundry again. When I say ‘on top’, what I mean is that there’s nothing left to wash and, since I no longer iron, smoothed but still wrinkled clothes lie strewn decorously (or not!) in baskets about the house.
I used to watch Dallas back then. When I ironed like a good ‘un in the Eighties. When shoulder pads reigned (come on, we all wore them - Even the men!), and it seemed like the world was at my feet.
Now, I feel like I’m at the feet of the world, as I strain to find a job in this difficult economic climate. And, to top it all, I’ve had some anxieties about stuff going on elsewhere in the family.
We just never stop worrying about our children, do we?
I was talking to a fabulous octogenarian lady, Ella, the night of our pub’s Annual Leek Club. I came 18th, and very proud of it, I was too.
(NB: There are 25 members in the Leek Club. 1 lady has got so old she couldn’t remember to submit any leeks this year for the show. ‘No-one told me to grow leeks’, she cried... That'll be me one day.)
I know, I’m rambling. That's what I do - Unhitch yer wagon if you don't like the odd (and I mean odd!) ramble or two!
Ella and her husband, Don, are very dignified people. Always beautifully turned out. Caring and loving. She was telling me about her children, who are older than me, and her grand-children, who are almost twenty years younger than me. We sat and whiled away the evening. The Leek Club Champion, who’d just got married that same week, passed around the silver cup, filled to the brim with the whiskey that he’d won in that evening’s raffle. (He won three raffle prizes, his luck seems to be in! He told me he'd also had a very modest win with the Lottery, yikes!) Like the true Pagans we are descended from, we each took a sip from the burnished cup, drinking to his health and his good luck. And hoping a little bit of his luck will rub off on each of us for next year's show.
Ella told me how she’s never stopped caring about how her children are doing. Not for one minute. She was describing how she moved from their childhood home just a few years’ back. She is pleased she was able to give her children and the grandbairns the memories of growing up in a safe, rural location, where there were lots of freedoms and, above all, fun...
I’ve tried to do that for my young ‘un. And this year, I’ve noticed him getting more and more anxious about his studies. I’ve seen his fingernails bitten down to the quick. Wherever did he pick up that habit? Not from me... Perhaps the angst is passed down in the genetic makeup? That’s not so good a feeling to have as a parent. I hope I’ve given him lots of fun too. I know I have always known, and shown to him, just what love I hold for him. Just how much he means to me.
So now I’m giving him the free rein he needs. To make the decisions he wants to make about this part of his future. I’ve never pushed him into anything, as such. Pushy parent, not moi? Helicopter parenting? I try not to.
But I’m worried about this next year, or so, in his life (and mine), and what it will bring.
There. Enough said. If I keep on phasing in and out at the blog, that’s generally why.
I’m an anxious person.
I’m strong, but I’m also vulnerable sometimes.
That’s me. Pleased to meet you!
But, can anyone tell me, how come the dead woman from Desperate Housewives has managed to get to Dallas and marry Bobby?!