We are gently gliding about in the first week of the summer holidays, doing things here, doing things there, not really rushing too much. Mostly just enjoying the fact we don’t have to prance about to someone else’s tune.
As a result there is absolutely nothing of import to tell you.
Which is delightful.
When I did a year of Greek and Roman studies at university, we studied small snippets of text called gobbets.
I love that word. It really doesn’t get used enough in daily speech. I have decided that I will post some gobbets on our holiday activities so far:
I have squeezed in some reading, although the sleeping every time I sit down is kicking in big time at the moment, and I am currently dozing my way through a very heavy tome about Richard III, which is slowing me down somewhat.
I have spent extreme amounts of time in my pyjamas. This is always excellent. I am always unnaturally excited by the thought of being able to wander about in a pyjamaed state, unless I am in hospital. In hospital my inner polarity responder comes out to play and I immediately want to get dressed and burn my pyjamas in a dustbin lid in the middle of the garden. I am nothing if not inconsistent.
I have consumed indecent quantities of ice cream. There is a hint of danger in this, as my ageing sinuses do not approve of me hoofing down huge quantities of dairy products, and will probably treat me to a misery inducing bout of sinusitis quite soon. On the other hand I can no longer afford to indulge in many of the vices I enjoyed in my dim and distant past. Ice cream is one of the less malevolent ones, and the lure of the new Magnum tarte aux pommes, and the marvels of Waitrose stem ginger flavours cannot be denied.
Everyone else is enjoying the weather. Me, less so. I like the fact that it is warm enough for my washing to dry (middle aged woman issues ahoy), and that I can leave all the doors and windows open. I hate being sweaty every time I am forced to get in the slightest bit active. I hate the fact that even with all the windows open and the fan on, our bedroom is like an oven.
I am continuing to defy the weather by experimenting with my slow cooker, which I fall more and more in love with as the days go by. So far I have created; sausage casserole; peppered beef stew; chicken and chorizo stew; thai chicken curry and spaghetti bolognese. Tomorrow I am making venison casserole.
Re: the slow cooker. It has been a persistent bee in my bonnet for months. Jason roundly declared that it would be a waste of money as I would use it lots of times at first, and then it would gather dust in the back of the cupboard, much like the ice cream maker he bought me. I feel that this is unfair.
The ice cream maker had to go into retirement due to a) the weight gain and b) the sinus pain. It did get used relentlessly for a long period of time. As I am currently off my self imposed ice cream ban I may dig it out once more.
The ice cream maker was always going to be a luxury. One cannot live on ice cream alone, and I should know, as my friend Kate and I tried to do this very thing during our four month sojourn in Bavaria one year, surrounded by some of the most amazing ice cream parlours on earth.
It was good while it lasted…
The slow cooker is a more practical, every day item. I am determined not to prove Jason right. I hate it when he is right. As I am a hare brained, flittersnoopesque kind of woman, I spend a lot of time in this state. He is invariably right about lots of things. I am not letting him win the battle of the slow cooker though.
I stay awake some nights wondering whether he is practising reverse psychology on me, i.e. by him stating firmly that I won’t use it regularly, he is actually ensuring that I will.
I hate that.
We have a complicated relationship – my brain and I.
My husband and I have a fairly complicated relationship too.
Andrea and I went to the Phoenix Arts Cinema in Leicester last night to see The Globe’s production of Twelfth Night, which has been filmed live for cinema audiences. It was the all male version starring Mark Rylance; Stephen Fry and Roger Lloyd Pack.
It was rather uneven. The chap playing Orsino didn’t really do it for me, and the twins Viola and Sebastian were alright, but it was redeemed by the most magnificent performance by Rylance as Olivia. I have never, and will never see a better Olivia than that. He was amazing, as was Paul Chahidi as the servant, Maria. In fact Chahidi stole every scene he was in, and made you appreciate the role of Maria in a completely new way, which was pretty joyous.
We’re off to see Branagh’s Macbeth on Saturday.