Just Beetling About

This morning I had a visitor. He shot in as if being chased, his iridescent cloak underneath him as he crash-landed on the marble floor. I know my parties can be raucous but normally my guests lie on their back in the kitchen at the close of the night, not at 8am. I got the broom and gently swooshed him out the door; he was still prone with legs waving in the air, so being a kindhearted soul I flipped him over with a twig. Stunned at his treatment and lucky escape, he sat there thinking about the vissitudes of life. 

I returned to pick up my handbag and headed out to the bank. I'd mistakenly bought some euros thinking I'd need them for the Dubrovnik hotel so I wanted to change them into kuna. And then i had other fish to fry. 

Last night whilst chatting with a local I asked where I could buy some catch of the day. The harbour, or the fish market on the Main Street, apparently. He recommended I go early. What is it with this place and the incredibly early starts, do they not know I'm terrible in the morning? 

So after waking at my usual work time of 7.40, evicting my house bug, and going to the bank, I hot footed it to the market. I was quite excited about being an actual fishwife and had some choice vocabulary at the ready. The young catch winked up at me; the fish, however just lay there. There were three types of fish; long ones, flattish ones, or long flattish ones. I chose two of the ones which looked a bit surprised. Not as stunned as they will be later when I introduce them to garlic and hot olive oil. 

After wowing the man with my fluency, učim jezik, you know, he skillfully gutted, descaled and cleaned them. This took as much time as it usually takes me to construct a two word sentence in this language. He bagged them, and I left still boggling at the £1.20 for two massive fresh fish. That was main course sorted so went to see the lady across the road for side dishes of beef tomatoes, cucumber, cauliflower and courgette. The strawberries looked ravishing, so I invited them back for dinner too. 

I proudly walked home, after spending the princely sum of £2.50 or so on a couple of days food. Not only that but I'd shown I was capable of going to the bank, shopping for food pre-9am and pre-breakfast. I waved at the beetle who was still lurking, hastily scoffed my muesili, and legged it to the Korčula ferry with minutes to spare. 

Whilst the cat's away...

Normally you'd expect this mouse to play, however this first week with just one Contrarian meant more sleepless nights and trying to make myself useful.

Which I singularly failed to do on Saturday.

Victoria Park

Instead I took myself up to Victoria Park to spend some time with my lovely friend Veep. This mostly involved walking around the park for a while before having a natter over wine. I mean that's kind of productive, right? And the park was oh so pretty at dusk with happy groups of people sitting around after a day in the sun.

And not napping as I had managed.

Sunday involved a trip to the Fortnum and Mason of E14 which was a delight to behold and something everyone should aspire to do.

If they are insane.

I really don't know what I was thinking, the worst place to be on a Sunday is the Burdett Road Lidl as the entire populace has clearly forgotten that they needed food and must rush out to get it now. Which would be okay if they didn't bring their entire family with them to share the moment.

After a soothing nanana milkshake (two nananas, remains of cornish ice cream, milk, blend, wince at ice cream headache) I tackled the uncharted territory of the downstairs loo. Now you have to understand that whilst we have this for guests we almost never use it as it's normally crammed with shoes, more shoes, bags, extra shoes, boots and a few more bags along with the evil vacuum cleaner, skittles, bits of artwork that have been forgotten about and my trusty zebra trolley bag.

In short, it's not our finest moment. Though it's also not the worse place in Contrary Towers.

After fevered activity and supported by a glass of chateau plonk from a Chez Lidl bag-in-box - I know, all of the class - I managed to somehow beat the room in to shape and empty all the remnants out of various handbags before finally finding a new home for goodness knows how many pairs of boots.

I imagine the room won't last long in this state...

The next job was the scary one... As we will need somewhere to store various bits and pieces of Clare's when she buggers off for her big adventure next year I really needed to do something about the tumult of the useless store cupboard.

Gulp.

*shrieks*

You know the phrase it will get worse before it gets better? Yep, that. Just imagine chaos in cardboard. I wasn't totally mean though, I kept contacting the happy wanderer to see if she really wanted to keep X and then relocated whatever it was to the bins. Fortunately by this point Veep turned up and fortified by wine we made a number of trips to the recycling and waste bins to get rid of stuff, stuff and more stuff.

Ta da!

Very cathartic.

So now the cupboard is clear, reorganised and I even managed to not throw out everything! It'll never catch on.

So all in all an unexpectedly productive weekend. I even created a new dictionary definition for a word...

Declare: to make your kitchen spotless whilst your flatmate is on holiday.

Well it made me giggle...

Pease pudding in the pot...

As some of you know I'm quite northern. My days of parading around Newcastle in a short dress and heels as the snow lays deep and crisp and even may now be at an end, but some characteristics remain. I know, amazing.

The biggest is food. The sort of food that would leave the average southerner might gape at in heart attack inducing wonder. But, amazingly it's not all bad for you. Some even passes as healthy. Ish.

Pease pudding.

I get a craving for this from time to time. What I really* want is a stottie cake, pease pudding and a saveloy dip, but sadly the nearest branch of Dicksons to me is about 270 miles away. I know that they do a saveloy dip kit, but seriously, I want the real thing. There.

My Aunty Sheila still smuggles contraband saveloy dips in to Norfolk when she visits...

Anyway.

As I was saying, I get cravings. The last time I couldn't find any yellow split peas in either Poplar's answer to Fortnum or the WORST TESCO IN THE WORLD. Shocking.

Fast forward a few months to me finding a huuuggggeeeee back of them in the Isle of Dogs Asda. So I could make pease pudding. And that always means... gammon!

You'll need:

• 300g or so of yellow split peas
• a chopped onion
• a bay leaf
• about a teaspoon of salt
• half a teaspoon of grated nutmeg
• half a teaspoon of dried thyme or a bit more if it's fresh
• a beaten egg
• ground black pepper
• 50g or so of butter

As the split peas are dried they need to be soaked first, there are two ways: Fast and slow...

First rinse the split peas in a sieve under the cold tap.

Slow

Put the peas in a pan, cover with cold water and leave overnight. Not recommended if you have just told your flatmate that pease pudding, gammon and mustard sauce are on the menu for that evening

Fast

Boil the kettle, put the peas in the pan and cover them with the boiling water. Put the lid on to trap the heat and wait about half and hour.

Done, good. Heat about half the butter in a frying pan, add the onion, thyme, and bay leaf to the pan and cook gently until the onions soften and are just starting to colour, maybe about 15 minutes. Keep stirring!

Drowned peas

Drain the peas and add in the stuff from the frying pan. Add about a litre of water and bring to the boil. Turn the heat down and simmer for about 45 minutes. Or longer if you start chatting with your flatmate.

Or she's desperate for food and you want to torture her with the smell.

Torturing done and the water well reduced remove the bay leaf and use your trusty hand blender to, well, blend until you have a thick puree.

It can take a while.

Finally beat in the egg, nutmeg and whatever butter is left. Obviously adding salt and pepper to taste.

Eat.

As shown above this can be with saveloy, gammon and even works as a fine spread in a bacon sandwich.

I also found today that it works brilliantly with left over pasta arrabbiata. Lovely.

One note of warning. As you may be aware the nursery rhyme goes:

Pease pudding hot, Pease pudding cold,
Pease pudding in the pot - nine days old.
Some like it hot, some like it cold,
Some like it in the pot - nine days old.

Nonsense, it won't last nine days. The first batch didn't even last until bedtime.

Gorging on Colour

You may be pleased to know that there wil be no nostalgiafest today. For reasons known only to my parents, they decided to give the Samaria Gorge a miss. Given my brother was only 6 and the gorge 16km long, perhaps they were wiser than I knew. Anyway years later their idiot daughter found herself getting up at 4.30 to go for a gentle stroll in the mountains. Not just that but persuading a pre teen and a mad saffa to do similar. 

I don't often see sun rise and here it is a visual delight, a light show to rival any I've seen; the black-white limestone screen of mountains with a rainbow projection. As we hit the Askifou plateau we had reached the yellow/green stage and the cornfields waved in coloured empathy. As the coach doors opened it seemed that the fragrance also coloured the air. Mint green as invigorating as the breeze. 

We needed to go higher and the greens turned to blue; likewise mint turned to pine. We had clearly reached the Cretan alps. The White Mountains stretched high above us, dizzying in aspect, but our path led down. The entrance to the gorge gaped and we disappeared one by one, carefully, slowly, into the resinous gloom.   

The going was hard underfoot but looking up was breathtaking. Between the black green Calabrian pines and bright blue, the sheer sharp white mountains soared.

Still, down we went and the trees oddly started to thin until the rocks showed through, a dry, dessicated white. In parody of the tumbling froth, the stones sat in mid movement on the river bed. Many hands had created works of art from these pebbles, piling them up from large to small. Even the tree branches were covered in pebble 'moss'. It seemed that these sculptures were the only way to reduce the magnificence of the mountains to human scale.

Further down the gorge and we found the rainbow's end. The endlessly high walls were golden; liquid gold flowed over the pebble nuggets. Criss-crossing the pure stuff, the burbling echoed our giggles. By the eighth kilometre the laughing was more hysterical but, still, we laughed. The prize was the iron gates, where the ravine was a mere three metres wide. The rickety wooden path bridge carried us through the gap.

However, despite all that had gone before, the best was yet to come. The geological story that the rocks were telling us, and everyone who listens, is endless. They relate the power of the earth, the compressing heat, the lives of the fossilising creatures within - everything both in its place and transforming into something else. Like the piled pebbles and wobbly people, balance is sweet. 

And so, what about the end of our journey? We had traversed the longest gorge in Europe, lost most of our dignity and anticipated the muscle pains. But I salute the sanity of my parents for allowing me to find this gorge, myself, the hard way. 

Holiday Pinks

It's that time of year again; when London and I spend time apart to 'find ourselves' or 'take a break' for the good of my health and sanity. Recent trips away have revolved around significant birthdays - not the one on Decenber though, that was just bloody minded contrariness - so it was nice just to book and not worry about being another year closer to mandatory tummy control bikini bottoms. 

Crete was the choice of the youngest travelling companion. A dour doom merchant of drama queen proportions.  Or a pre teen Yorkshire Saffa ... Middle name 'caaaan I have a saaaaandwich?'. For as long as I've known him he has been obsessed with Greek gods so I was determined to bring him to the place where history, myth, civilisation combined to change my life at the same age. 

It was also my first time on a plane, first time not on a windy tent holiday and the first time I experienced the sea as a gentle warm blue bath. It was also where I had my first holiday romance. So it was a pretty momentous holiday by anyone's standards. 

My dad had worked some legalistic miracle for the hotel owner - or indeed had his own romance - but we somehow got invited to a family christening way up in the fragrant spiky island interior. This solemn ceremony in a tiny ancient chapel led to an explosively festive affair which carried on way into the night. A group of kids welcomed me and my younger brother, as we giggled at the ridiculous dancing adults. Music filled the air as thickly as the scents of the rosemary roasting lamb over the fire. 

In this atmosphere the beautiful young man and I kissed, and we held hands for the rest of the evening. When ever we saw one another in the hotel kitchen we would smile shyly and I imagined a life in permanent sunshine with him. At 12 the hopeless dreamer could hopelessly dream. 

So when I heard the voices and traditional music last night - as well as seeing grown adults dancing with red faces, I was transported to another time and place. Where holidays experienced as a child were actually life changing and inspirational. 

Still, even now, the child in me imagines the sea and rocky inlets sheltering ancient traders and fishermen, the purple mountain crags jangled with goats bells...whilst the lithe young men practice bull fighting and the bare breasted women waved snakes. 

I don't know what this young chap will take away from this holiday. Already his swimming confidence has grown, apparently the food is divine, and today he will walk the longest gorge in Europe. But nothing is more important than the opportunity to learn, travel and be inspired. 

Contrary Exercise

On March the 17th I did something I've never done before. Something so perverse as to be at the edge of my ability to comprehend why anyone could be so insane as to think this was a good idea.

I bought exercise clothes.

To be fair this wasn't a whim. In a moment of actual insanity I conceded that it would probably be a good idea to do some actual exskdjj. Exskdjhl. Exasdl;; Exe. R. Cise.

See, I can even say the word!

Right.

Exe. R. Cise clothes. Yes, mine!

Now having not ever done this nonsense before I had no idea what to get, so off I toddled to Primarni to get something that was a) cheap as I would only wear it once because honestly I won't make the same mistake twice and b) vaguely suitable. Think Sporty Spice meets a kebab van. It took me about ten minutes to work my way to a corner of the Oxford Street branch in a place which had disturbingly lurid colours and excess lycra.

Fortunately they had stuff suitable for geriatric size and I sauntered back to the office happy in the knowledge that at least one day I can tell my grandchildren that I'd thought about exercise. Once.

Kinky

What I didn't realise is that Clare, being the enthusiastic (read: insane) type was also out shopping. She'd bought a) some things called weights which looked suspiciously like something from the kinkier corner of the sex shop on Goodge Street, b) two mats, one each, which would make exercise somewhat more comfortable and c) things called ankle weights which definitely must have come from said sex shop.

So I tried them on.

Okay maybe they are actually tags to track whether I'm exercising. I didn't at all feel silly wearing them. No sirreeeee. The plan was set at 7am we would head for the roof terrace and my date with destiny.

I put the number of the paramedics on speed-dial.

The very next day... Well I was up on time, whilst the Jane Fonda of E14 was a little late. Something about it being the middle of the night. At least that's what I think she said. The plan was simple, she'd chosen a torture regime exercise plan from miCoach in the my-flatmate-is-a-lazy-mare-who-refuses-to-exercise section of the site and synchronised that with her iTorture as it should now be known.

Great.

I think it's fair to say that if you get fit from laughing I will be taking Gold at the next Olympics in everything. Imagine a hippo at her first pilates-meets-ballet session and you won't be far wrong. In lycra. Obvs. But here was the strange thing. Whilst my body was telling me I'd been doing things I shouldn't be doing I actually felt fine. No. Better than fine.

I actually felt good.

Weird. With that in mind I showered, dressed and headed off to W1 for a day of tribulations. Disappointingly I was offered a seat at Mile End. On the Central Line. By a lady. Pfft. But on the bright side I'd fair bounced to the station. In my head I was thinking that wasn't too bad, but let's face it, hardly motivation.

Later that evening I was off to the WI where I knew I was going to have to do the introductions which may have influenced how tidy I was. Classical was how my look was described by one of the lovely ladies. It was a great evening with a really interesting speaker and all was well in the world...

Until that is I was chatting with one of the other committee members towards the end of the evening when she dropped the napalm coated bombshell that was:

"Victoria, are you expecting?"

And there, in those four words lay my incentive. It was time I went down a dress size and never got offered a seat on the underground again! Ever. Well, maybe not ever, but just not because I look pregnant.

The next morning at 0650 hours I was ready. And at 0700. And at 0710. I realised that maybe Clare wasn't going to get up so with my own plan loaded on miCoach I headed to the roof to exercise. On. My. Own.

Me.

Cake.

And it was fine. It might have taken my a bit longer as I had to look at the little videos to see what the hell I was supposed to do, but exercise I did. Triumphantly I wobbled back downstairs to cool off and scoff the cake I'd brought back from the WI the previous evening. Never has a piece of cake tasted so good! When I say piece I obviously mean two pieces.

Originally I set the plan so that I would work out on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but obviously starting on the wrong day knocked things out so Saturday was the last day of my first week. Amazingly I again did it alone. More specifically I got up, made dough for bread, put the first load of washing in and then bounced up to the roof for exercise the third. Crikey.

Bonkers.

Monday would be the first day of the new exercise week and also I thought would test my resolve... It was barely above freezing and frost was everywhere. Fortunately I am well insulated, northern and slightly bonkers.

Glorious!

It was a little fresh and I did make sure I was in a patch of sunlight to get some warmth. Plus the frost made things a little slippery, but oh the air was glorious. And I felt annoyingly good about myself as I desperately struggled to do what is actually quite a simple routine.

I am after all still new to all of this insanity.

Fog lifting...

The madness was setting in as by Wednesday I was looking forward to my morning torture, which it was. I was on a roll. Or would have been if come Friday morning I was truly struggling to get moving. This was not good. By some miracle I managed to force myself to get going even in spite of the fact that thick fog was enveloping E14 making the Spanish Inquisition look a more palatable prospect than twenty minutes of exertion.

And yet...

I did it. I actually did it. And I felt very good about the fact that I'd managed to against the odds of my years of sloth.

Tomorrow. At 7am. I shall do it all again.

Of poo and worms

This week has been rather scatalogical. I was at my friends' house for the weekend and we got on to the topic of increasing yields in your garden. Then last night I went to a lecture on early medieval gardening in urban Rome. As a result, shit has been high on the agenda. Turns out you can't grow diddly without it.

As last year was my first ever foray into roof gardening I hadn't really thought about the quality of my soil. I threw seeds at it and enjoyed whatever grew. This year it occurred to me that the already dodgy soil had probably been weakened by last season's growing efforts. I also had very little joy with root veggies, and as Dave (my mate's hubby) pointed out, peas are pretty much weeds and will grow anywhere.

Pffft, so much for my green fingers.

He was also concerned about the lack of living creatures in my beds and so lovely Gill dug out some worms for me to bring back home. Most people leave friends' places with leftover party food or surplus alcohol. I had a Chinese takeaway box of worms in compost. Being of a squeamish disposition, I asked J to deposit them on upstairs for me and bury the little blighters before they became breakfast noodles for pigeons.

So this weekend we found ourselves digging the soil, watching out for my precious worms and flinging chicken shit at one another. Actually, to be fair that was a mistake and he happened to be in the way on my delicate sprinkling. As we started to dig the pellets into the rather damp earth, there was an unmistakable smell of, well, growing in the air.

After some Googling I dug some trenches for my spuds, whilst J got garlicking. I remembered to plant my jerusalem artichokes: who can resist farty soup? I also managed to do my bit for the bees who live on the other building and sprinkled some wildflower seeds on the other disused beds. This will also add colour, scent and interest to the other parts of the roof garden.

I also planted veg seeds. The weather is a little chilly as yet so I moved our greenhouse into a public part of the building, just behind the lift. It's a south facing glass fronted bit which is perfect for germinating. So I've popped the tomatoes (gold and red), dwarf beans, spinach and salad leaves there for the time being.

Amusingly we bumped into the noisy neighbour. He was dyeing his hair. What the actual f***? HE WAS DYEING HIS HAIR in the lobby area of our floor. He was maintaining his youth apparently. Was he hiding from the lady that was sharing a fragrant smoke with him earlier? I've no idea but PEOPLE!

Anyway after running off snorking we cleared up and admired the flowers.

Every time I look at what I've managed to grow with very little effort and skill, I am amazed. Even my rather rubbishy fruit bushes seem to be getting excited about the view, sun and warmth. From smelly, brown, wormy soil, our food appears. Which is why Spring has to be my favourite time of year; promises of colour and beautiful scents...and an epic salad.