Welcome to Moss Cottage

Actually, that’s not at all true. In fact, I can start at the end of February, as I totally missed something. The last Wednesday in February was the new Behind the Scenes poetry book club. I had horrid tonsillitis but managed to facilitate the group, where we discussed Angela Topping’s collection, I Sing of Bricks. Afterwards I met M in Leaf, Liverpool and learned of the restorative effects of brandy on a sore throat.

Well, that’s February done. Although I still want to come back to that thing I saw at the theatre with M. Maybe I’ll do that at the weekend?

March itself – well, there weren’t any HUGE MASSIVE EPIC EVENTS, which was quite nice actually. There was Smash, of course; S compered and it went swimmingly. Mothering Sunday was good actually; Cherub’s school had got him to make a card and a flowerpot for me which was lovely, and his Dad – or possibly his Dad’s girlfriend – bought me a lovely book of Mrs. Beeton recipes and some chocolate.

M had a gig at the Vinyl Bar on Lark Lane on the 16^th (he’s part of a dead boss duo you can check out here) and that was fab, although I felt a bit guilty talking to M most of the night and leaving his bandmate to fend for himself a bit. Actually he had friends there too so I didn’t feel that awful.

On the evening of Monday the 19^th I had a bit of a special treat; it was a bit of a last minute thing but I went to see what I thought was a gig by a duo called Penman, who I’ve heard quite a few times at the Egg Café. I knew there was to be another band there, but I hadn’t realised it was these ladies, who are awesome. It was in someone’s house, too – or rather, her parents’ house – a lovely mansion-like place in Prescot, which was unusual but seemed to work.

My mate J came over for tea midweek too, which was great; I think I made mushroom risotto, which I never get to make for Cherub as he hates mushrooms and risotto. Or maybe that was the night she came over and played with Cherub a bit? Anyway, either way, she came over and it was lovely.

Then at the end of that week, I went Over the Water for a birthday meal for one of M’s bezzies, where the food was awesome and I was introduced to the concept of Baileys Ice Cream, which is dead yum.

At the last Wednesday of the month it was Behind the Scenes again, this time covering Carol Ann Duffy’s latest book, The Bees. It was a bit quieter this time but we covered a lot of ground and went away – I think? – enjoying the book more than when we started.

And the month finished with a craft fair at the now closed – sigh – Mash Art Café, where M did something so ridiculously sweet and romantic I’m not even going to put it here because you’d all be sick. With jealousy.

And… that was March. Compared to April it was incredibly quiet. April. Yeah. Now that was a month. Cripes.

OHAI posterous *looks awkward, shuffles around a bit, looks at toes* how are you keeping? You’re looking wonderful, I must say. I’ve, well I’ve totally missed you loads. *blurts out* I HAVEN’T BEEN MESSING AROUND WITH TUMBLR BEHIND YOUR BACK I REALLY HAVEN’T HONEST… oh. You didn’t say I had. Oh. Well, this is awkward.

Oh, all right, but it’s only because tumblr’s so easy. You’re still my number one. You’re the blogging platform that means the most to me; tumblr’s just about the excitement but you, well, I’m committed to you, posterous, you know that. It doesn’t mean anything, me and tumblr, it’s just a bit of harmless fun…

Besides, it’s not as if you’re entirely innocent, off flirting with twitter like that while my back was turned.

Erm, anyway, yes, where was I?

February. Really that far back? I really haven’t blogged February yet and we’re in April already and … argh!

Last thing I blogged was London, wasn’t it? Which was totes amaze and saucegenial and all that.

After that, well of course it was Hallmark Day. I mean the Feast Day of St. Valentine.  I mean Lupercalia. I mean Lycaea. I mean… oh stuff it, it was an opportunity for – and for the gentler, less romantically inclined reader, this is the perfect time for you to look away – me and my lovely boyfriend M to tell each other how we felt. Ahem.

M made me the sweetest card EVAR with a heart-shaped TARDIS on the front and a list of reasons why he loved me inside. And on the back. Because, awww. He also got me some gorgeous tulips and a rather pretty purple broach for my new velvet jacket*. I made him a heart-shaped pie and wrote him a rather long love letter.

Um, what else occurred in February? Well, there was Smash, of course; I was the compere and although it was much quieter than usual (the rugby is, after a brief interlude, back in St. Helens) in some ways the quality was better; I’m not sure why that should be but it was. Also, the chap who organises Come Strut your Stuff also came along to Smash, and despite being more of a singer-songwriter respected the spoken word only ethos by reading aloud some of his lyrics, which translated surprisingly well into poetry.

Oh, that’s right, me and M went to see the opening of this exhibition, which I really enjoyed. In fact, M enjoyed it too**, I think, or at least, was so ridiculously good at faking his enthusiasm that he actually went to a talk by Von Heyl the next evening to learn more about her work, and emailed me his findings too. It was fun to see some almost modernist-style abstract painting in the Tate Liverpool, too.

And finally, there was this, which M took me to see. But I’ll come back to that in another post. No, really, I will. Maybe, just maybe even tomorrow!

* Which, like a massive twatster, I lost somewhere between my house at St. Helens Central station. In my defence it fell off my jacket somehow. I was gutted. Luckily M wasn’t pissed off or anything, ‘cos he’s dead nice.

** Dear reader, I know you’re well jel.

Not only have I updated Cherub's blog, but I also have a tumblr! Get me! Next thing you know I'll be running a marathon! Well, okay, not that, but I might even see my way to updating the Smash Poetry Night blog... hey, you never know; stranger things have happened!

Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London

Saturday morning, after negotiating the lovely-in-every-other-way-Clarendon-Hotel’s slightly dodgy hot water system, me and M were off out again. This time, off to Bank on the tube and then from Bank… the DLR! The Dockland’s Light Railway!

Even despite spending nearly three years living in London, I never tired of the DLR. Ever. Sitting at or as near as possible to the front, pretending to drive the train, or that you’re on a roller coaster – how could anyone ever become inured to that?

I stood where I knew the train would stop in order to get my front row seat, but a small child was standing nearby also, and so I was happy for him and his Dad to sit at the front instead. Me and M sat down in the seats behind them and still managed to get a good enough view. Anyway, they got off just after Canary Wharf and we managed to get the front seats until Greenwich.

And – ahhh Greenwich. Although one of the main outdoor markets I used to frequent seems to have been taken over by building works, the little antiques market was still there (from which I bought a lovely pair of earrings) and further into Greenwich, the indoor/covered market selling a wide range of hipster foods and goods was fantastic. We ate a delicious beef butty and drank some mulled wine and wandered around the stalls. M didn’t seem to mind being dragged around a dozen shops and market stalls at all*, and we had a fantastic time.

After that, we walked up through Greenwich Park towards the observatory. For this leg of our Epic Walk To Lewisham (for that, reader, is what we had planned) we had to climb a Very Steep Hill, but it was well worth it for the beautiful panoramic view of London.

Then it was across Blackheath, parts of which M said reminded him of Highgate**. We crossed the heath itself at first which, although not mentioned in Eliot’s list of gloomy hills, might well have been, in the grey, icy, windy weather. But like a symbol of the hope that Eliot himself mentions often in Four Quartets, a chap was trying to fly a kite up there. Back down past the many estate agents (always an interesting game to estimate how much my house, which I pay under £500 pcm to rent, would cost down there) and through the village (where they even have a small Neal’s Yard outlet) we eventually came to the top of the route into Lewisham, a long road past some posh houses juxtaposed with slightly run-down blocks of flats. When I emerged in Lewisham my heart skipped a beat, for it was here, reader, I spent nearly three years of my life in the early noughties.

And yet, at the same time, I didn’t have the same sense of overwhelming nostalgia, heart-sickness and unrequited yearning that I did last time I visited Lewisham, about three years ago. In fact, I didn’t feel sad at all. I’d go further, even; I no longer felt regret or any sense that I was still tied to the town; I even felt happy and excited on seeing the town centre. We had a little walk through the market (why oh why oh why oh why isn’t there a market like that in St. Helens?) and then on towards Catford to play pool at the Fox and Firkin, where I won a couple of games, drank stout and generally had a fabulous time with M.

After that, we decided to have a wander to Deptford via the DLR, to look for a pub we both remembered as being called The Swan. Google maps only knew of a pub called The White Swan, so we walked there. The second we walked in we both knew it wasn’t the same pub. M had been to a gig at The Swan, and I’d read poetry there on more than one occasion, and The White Swan was a very different sort of a place. The mystery remains unsolved; especially as I seem to remember The Swan being under a bridge and around a corner, and not, in fact, on the high street at all. But google seems to think The Swan doesn’t exist! Did we both make it up?

Following The Mystery Of The Swan, we hopped on the overground train to London Bridge, then via tube to Waterloo, where we crossed the river. We happened on a small food market there, so I bought some rather nice cider for my mate D, who was letting my cats in and out back at Moss Cottage. Then, M took me to a lovely restaurant in Chinatown where we had a delicious meal that included cashew nuts and tofu.

When we left the restaurant, it was snowing. Snow, in London. Gosh, how ridiculously romantic and magical. But also cold, so we left the snow, hopped on the tube to Euston and had a quick glass of wine in what-used-to-be-Coopers pub, watching the commuters from our mezzanine vantage point. Then onto our train which left Euston without incident, driving through a flurry of snow past fields full of the stuff, which I missed, because I spent at least half the journey fast asleep with my head on M’s shoulder, while he read Doctor Who Magazine.

* Told you he was wonderful.

** Eliot does reference Highgate in his list of gloomy hills.

Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations

And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence

After the Doctor Who exhibition we got the tube back to Embankment station. Oh how I missed the tube. I don’t just mean because there’s one every couple of minutes, unlike, say, Liverpool Lime Street to St. Helens Central on a Sunday when there’s a train every hour, if you’re lucky. I mean also that feeling – which may sound odd – that I’m part of a history here, part of the pollution clogging up London’s veins, part of something bigger and part of the capital. (And because Eliot mentions the tube in Four Quartets, obviously.) Even when I lived there I never became complacent about the tube (partly, I think, because I only really got the tube at weekends as during the week I commuted using what was then called Connex, the overground train system) and it was always a joy to walk down the already fast escalator and feel the stale air greet me.

Walking up towards Charing Cross, I wondered how many times in my dim and distant past I’d walked that way; too often to even contemplate, really; and it hadn’t changed much. And we went to the pub that so often was the stop off point at the end of that walk; the Chandos. It was Friday night, so the place was absolutely packed with commuters (people who work in London, but live perhaps in Kent or thereabouts, and want a pint before getting the train home; I used to do the same when I lived in Lewisham). But there were no complaints (either from me or from the boyfriend, to whom, by the way, I shall from now on refer as M, as “the boyfriend” is a bit much to type every time I want to mention him, plus, it sort of makes him the head of MI6) about not getting a seat and there barely even being room to stand; in fact, it just added to the experience. It felt like I’d just got out of work (perhaps during my time in a well-known book publisher) and was full of the joys of the Unreal City.

Chandos always felt like fun when I lived in London; the quintessential “start of the weekend” pub. To be there with someone that I love and who is himself always great fun to be around was… well, it was just awesome. From Chandos, we walked into Soho, past Soho square, taking in a little pub called the Pillars of Hercules M used to frequent, and then to the Fitzroy Tavern. Then M took me for a gorgeous meal in the nearby Pizza Express which also included some of the loveliest olives I’ve ever had.

After that, if I’m remembering correctly, we had a wander around Russell Square and looked for a place I used to work. I couldn’t find it! I was there for over six months but couldn’t find it; google maps led us to its sister company, but my offices had either disappeared or, more likely, merged with the sister company (which did have nicer offices). I saw something that seemed to ring a bell, but was a block of flats. Anyway, from there we went to the Russell Square hotel for The Most Expensive Cocktails EVAR in the lounge.

Following on from that it was back through the freezing cold February night to our own hotel, to ready ourselves for the busy day after.

Unreal City

Under the brown fog of a winter dawn

It’s Tuesday. It’s nearly a week since Imbolc, which I celebrated with Cherub by going on a nature walk and looking for the first signs of spring, in addition to lighting lots of white candles. Last night I went to Strut your Stuff, an open mic poetry and music night at Liverpool’s Egg Café, with my friends S and J, and my boyfriend. It’s a week until Valentine’s Day; I most likely have Cherub on that day so the boyfriend is going to come to mine for tea. I think I’ll make a pie, because I’m dead romantic like that.

And, I have just had what might well qualify for The Best Weekend EVAR.

But backtrack to a month or so ago. I’d stayed at the boyfriend’s overnight (he lives in the centre of Liverpool) and he was walking me back to Lime Street station so I could get the train to work. We walked past the Virgin train to London, which was due to leave. We both wistfully imagined getting on it and having a daytrip to London, perhaps visiting some of our old haunts (we lived in London, although we didn’t know each other at the time, during a similar period of time in the early noughties). During the course of that day, we emailed each other a couple of times about what we would be doing had we got on that train and travelled to “Parallel London”.

And lo, it came to pass that in February, Cherub’s Dad had Cherub for an entire weekend and the boyfriend suggested to me that we go to Actual London together. So we did! (My friend D kindly offered to look after the cats while I was away, too, for which I was grateful.)

And what a fabulous time we had. On Friday, I arrived at Lime Street slightly earlier than him, only to discover due to a derailment in the Euston area, the trains were all – to use a technical phrase – a bit knackered. But when the boyfriend arrived we were determined not to let this stop our fun. We got on the Virgin train, which ploughed through furrows of rail past fields of shivering sheep, to Milton Keynes, where a rail replacement bus had been put on. It’s hard to squee about Milton Keynes, but squee I did as the train pulled in and I realised that the first leg of our journey was over and we were one step closer to the capital.

The bus took us fairly quickly to Watford, where we got on one of the few trains to Euston. En route to Euston, the train sped past London’s much superior graffiti; in fact it’s one of the things I always loved about the approach to Euston; the graffiti artists of North London clearly take more pride in their work, which is much nicer than the poorly scrawled cock-and-ball sets that grace the walls by St. Helens’ linear parkway, for example.

And then, Euston station! It was wonderful to arrive there, for the first time in about three years, and step onto that concourse again, which had barely changed since I used to live in London, going back ten years. Then, we walked through Bloomsbury to our lovely hotel, The Clarendon, by Russell Square (I’d worked in Russell Square for a time when I lived in London), and a gorgeous walk it was too in the clear February air, with a pale sun trying to warm the icy pavements.

After I’d freshened up, we then went to… drum roll… the Doctor Who exhibition, in Olympia! (Also, I was dressed pretty much as a femme version of the Third Doctor, which was great fun.) It. Was. Am.A.Zing. When we got there, we were shown into a small room with the Daleks from Victory of the Daleks and a few other props from NuWho. A nice young man chatted to us for a bit about the Daleks and how much we’d enjoy the Experience itself.

Then, once a few more people (all adults – but I suppose it was, just about, during school hours) had joined the throng we were led (actually, said Nice Young Man clicked his fingers to make the doors open, which was a nice touch – see Silence in the Library / Forest of the Dead) into a room where we sat in front of a projector screen. I thought to myself, at first, “hmm, this screen’s a bit old, there’s a crack in it”. Turns out the boyfriend had been thinking similarly.

And at the end of the short film… THE CRACK ONLY OPENED! LIKE THE CRACK IN YOUNG AMELIA POND’S WALL! SQUEE! And then things got AMAZEBALLS! We had to pilot the TARDIS! Matt Smith appeared on a video screen to show us how! Then there were surprise Daleks (I actually screamed. Genuine scream. I shudder to imagine how Actual Children would have reacted)! Weeping Angels! 3D Cybermen! I just…. Gosh. Wow. Bloody hell. Oh my god. Etc.

When the “experience” bit had finished and our heart rates returned to normal we got to go to the exhibition itself. Oh my god. Costumes from all the Doctors, companions and even Time Lords (the glove of Rassilon!); K9, cybermen, various daleks (including the SPECIAL WEAPONS DALEK FROM REMEMBRANCE OF THE DALEKS! SQUEE!) and many, many other Who monsters and aliens. Oh my. It was utterly amazing and squeetastic and brilliant and wow! I bought Cherub an umbrella with Matt Smith on it.

But that’s not all! That was just the start of the Epic Trip to London! But because it was so epic, I’m going to split it across a couple of blog posts because otherwise it’ll all become tl;dr.

tl;dr – LONDON – HURRAY! DOCTOR WHO – SQUEEEEEE! BOYFRIEND – FANFUCKINGTASTIC! AND THAT’S JUST PART ONE!

Hello and welcome to January!

But – wibbly wobbly flashback scene – how was Chrimbo?

First, Yule, which was utterly magical. Me and the boyfriend went to the bombed out church aka St. Luke’s on a surprisingly mild evening to watch Carols from Kings from 1957 on their big projector screen, drinking mulled wine. The wind caressed my skin and made the tinsel sparkle with the breeze. I felt ridiculously happy, and blissful. We exchanged gifts; I’d made him some midwinter candles (in place of a Yule log) and he gave me a wonderful hand-drawn card and an absolutely gorgeous silver necklace with a purple pendant, which I’ve hardly taken off since.

On Christmas Eve I threw a bit of a soiree for my friends, which I thoroughly enjoyed. There was exchange of presents; a beautiful purple scarf from S, a lovely set of photographs from D and food-based and other presents from friends, too. Me and W sang our Christmas Concert for everyone which I felt pleased about. Then, my neighbours came round for a while too. I think – I hope – it is fair to say A Good Time Was Had By All. There was even sherry and bucks fizz! I felt happy to have all my friends around me; it also alleviated the sadness I feel that my son doesn’t spend Christmas Eve with me (Christmas at his Dad’s house, birthdays at mine).

Christmas, or Ex-mas as I called it, wasn’t too bad. More about that here. Cherub enjoyed himself, which was the main thing. As you can see from Cherub’s blog, Boxing Day involved an epic walk over Ravenhead Greenway.

I try to get up to Ravenhead Greenway at some point around the turn of each year* and think about how the year has gone, and how the next year will go. For the first time since splitting from my now-ex husband, I felt like the year had gone wonderfully. Since the start of 2011, I’d enjoyed myself. There had of course been stressful and difficult times but on the whole, I felt incredibly lucky to share my year with The Best Child In The Whole Wide World Ever, fabulous, caring and wonderful friends, and as of the autumn of that year, a lovely boyfriend too. In fact, I think I’ll always look back on 2011 as A Good Year, no matter what happens in future.

I made a few resolutions; to continue finding reasons to celebrate throughout the year (mainly the Pagan sabbats, but I feel more comfortable with marking some of the Christian festivals these days, despite my lack of belief in a personal god); to be more serious about writing poetry, to make music in some form or another (violin-playing, singing) and to have a bit more structure for Cherub when he gets out of school.

On Three French Hens Day, or Christmas II, the boyfriend and I exchanged presents; amongst other things he got me a FIRST EDITION OF FOUR QUARTETS (yes, capitals. Yes, I’m shouting. I just… gosh) and I’d made him a River Song Journal cover for a 2012 diary, and a few other bits and bobs, mostly culinary-based. We watched the Doctor Who Christmas Special too, drinking champagne. Squee!

I also spent New Year’s Eve with my boyfriend; I met his Mum – who was lovely – for the first time; then me and the boyfriend went for a yummy meal, then for a few drinks, then down to the docks to watch the fireworks. All great fun, and the next day he accompanied my caterwauling on the violin with his (much more accomplished) piano playing, which was superb. Not to mention the hilarious card he gave me, which I can’t go into here as I’m not sure who reads this blog, but it was fantastic.

And as for January…

I’d been into work over Christmas, but it had been quiet and not much like work at all, but as soon as the New Year celebrations were over, I was back into it, feeling almost like I’d not had any time off at all. Oh well; it was great fun while it lasted.

And just to make Christmas continue that little bit longer, the boyfriend got us tickets to this Panto on Saturday just gone, which was fabulous and highly entertaining.

In other news, I have mostly been reading this, which is bloody brilliant. Not only from a squeeing Whovian fangirl point of view, although there obviously is that, but reading it as someone who writes reasonably okay-ish poetry, I am surprised at how many similarities even I’m discovering about how writers “come up with their ideas”, and work their craft.

Smash has continued to go well; December’s was quiet but intimate; January’s was loud, long and engaging. And only yesterday, a night S and I set up as a poetry book discussion group, Behind the Scenes, had its debut and I felt incredibly pleased with how it went. We discussed this; next month we’re doing this.

So, that’s all really; and February is just around the corner. (Next time on UpstairsBathroom: a visit to London, compering of February’s Smash, and will-or-won’t I remember to update the Smash blog, ever again?)

* I tend to think of the New Year as starting at the Winter Solstice.

So, in my last update, I neglected to mention that I have recently become the proud owner of a pre-loved violin. I had a gorgeous violin prior to this one, but for reasons I won’t go into here (suffice to say, I have learned a harsh but valuable lesson) I sold her. My last violin had the best sound ever, and despite the fact I was a mere Grade Five* when I played it you could be forgiven for thinking I was better than I was.

This violin isn’t nearly as lovely but she’s not awful either. I’ve called her Rosemary, primarily for remembrance.** And I’m actually taking the time to practise. A Certain Someone very kindly procured some sheet music for me; I was really pleased to discover the Grade One stuff was too easy, and there’s definitely no need for me, or anyone unfortunate enough to listen to me, to suffer the indignity of Stringpops.

I’ve been able to play along to a few carols, adequately, with my mate W on his guitar, and although I’m nowhere near as adequate as I once was, with a bit of practise, I’ll get there.

Of course, that was always my problem; practise. I learned to play the piano, too, and although I got further with the piano than with the fiddle (Grade Six: Merit, if I recall correctly. Grade Seven: EPIC FAIL) I always found the violin more fun. Primarily this was because I was better at it and needed so needed to practise less often. When I say “better”, I mean I found sight-reading much easier and so there wasn’t any of the same torture involved that there was with the piano. I mean, there are only so many times you can play through the same bars in a piece over and over and over trying to get the fingering on both hands right before you plunge your head into the keys and then shut the lid down on your neck because you are sick of the sound of yourself.

I just got utterly fed up with listening to myself, primarily because I just wasn’t that good. I wasn’t awful, but in a similar vein to Colby’s father, and Colby himself to an extent, in TS Eliot’s play The Confidential Clerk, there comes a point where you realise that what you enjoy isn’t necessarily what you’re good at, and I was certainly much better at using my fingers for typing.***

I do actually have a little keyboard at home and use it for playing nursery rhymes for Cherub and lately, the odd carol. And I can still just about manage Minuet in G.

However, the message I’ve always taken from The Confidential Clerk (although I usually apply it to my attempts to write poetry rather than anything to do with music) isn’t any of the oft-applied meanings about free will and faith but rather that – to quote from East Coker, part of TS Eliot’s Four Quartets – “for us, there is only the trying”. And when my poor neighbours knock at my house, bleary eyed after a bout of my violin-playing, begging for me to stop what they can only conclude is my torture of one of the cats, I shall say exactly that to them.

* I received a merit, get me, from the good people at the ABRSM, although in fairness, I suspect that, too, was down to the violin.

** As in, “remember why you sold your last violin and never be such a huge divvy ever again”.

*** 83 WPM. That’s almost like, the typing equivalent of getting a distinction in grade eight, or, erm, well, something, anyway.

Last time I wrote here was about a month ago, but I suppose a monthly blog update isn’t too bad a deal given that I update twitter several times a day (and add myriad pictures of corsets, Ooberman videos and status updates about how bloody lovely my child is, on Facebook).

At the beginning of November, Cherub, Uncle D and I went to the Sherdley Park bonfire night fireworks display. I’ll update Cherub’s blog in a bit more detail but suffice to say the display was fabulous; the crowds, less so. There were a few awkward moments when I realised I was crushing my child’s tiny hand in an effort not to lose him in the throng. However, Cherub came out of it with not one but two flashing wands (long story) and some candyfloss.

Mid-November was Smash Poetry Night of course which S compèred; I read all new poems and they seemed to get a good reception, although it’s always hard to tell.

In more Cherub-related news, we also went to the St Helens Christmas Lights Switch On where the one and only Ronan Parke* was singing. In fact, I went with Cherub and his father (how very modern!) but when we realised that the St Helens Lights weren’t to be Switched On until
much later, Cherub’s Dad suggested Pizza Hut. By the time we’d finished there, Cherub wanted to go home (as it transpired, he had the beginnings of chicken pox) and as it was his Dad’s turn, they both went back to his house.

I could have gone back to my house but I decided that I’d come all this way** to see the St Helens Christmas Lights get Switched On so I’d stick around to see just that. Unfortunately, iDris conked out half way through a WhatsApp convo with my darling friend S so I couldn’t text anyone to find out if they were around to gawp at the one and only Ronan Parke with me. I watched it all alone, feeling like a bit of a Billy No Mates. I can report that Ronan Parke is an even blander version of Justin Bieberfever, the Illuminatifestdisplay was a bit odd and probably not as impressive as the good folk of St Helens Council who organised it think, BUT the fireworks were amazeballs. After that I walked home and went to bed and fell asleep because I was bloody knackered.

Right up until the beginning of December it was still warm enough not to have the heating on, so in the spirit of frugality for which I am rightfully famed, all the money I saved by not spending a fortune on gas bills I spent on corsetry. This led to the unfortunate moment where, for the first time in years, I had my card declined in the Asda. Like the worst kind of hipster, I got iDris (for she was working) out of my pocket and showed the poor checkout girl that I had FIFTY WHOLE POUNDS in my savings account so it wasn’t that I couldn’t afford to pay for it, it was just a “cash-flow issue”. And then I put something back and got out of the shop very quickly. And then ran home and transferred the entirety of my savings into my current account. And sold a dress.

As soon as December started*** I turned on the carols and the chrimbo songs (and one of my friends sent me some Yule choonage too; I do like to cover all my festive bases. Wonder if there’s a CD somewhere called Melodies for Mithra?) and like a slightly drunken divvy on the nightbus to Prescot started singing along, badly, to all of them. However, because I’m blessed with musical friends who can drown out my caterwauling, I asked my talented guitarist friend W if he fancied doing some carolling, and so WRACS (don’t ask) was born. So far we’ve done a grand total of TWO carolling gigs, but there will be more (well, at least one more). Actually it’s great fun and our version of Gaudete is Not That Bad At All. And after much practise I can hit the dead high notes, at least 80% of the time, on the descant to O Come All Ye Faithful, too. Get me!

Christmas is of course coming soon and because I am skint I am making presents for pretty much everyone, except Cherub’s Dad who would scorn such a thing so I’ve bought him a fairly cheap bottle of whisky. (And of course Cherub is getting a Sonic Screwdriver. This is totally for
him and in no way will I get any pleasure from such a toy being in my house.) Actually most of these presents are truffles and biscuits**** which I’m sure anyone would be happy to receive. I know I would (hint, hint. Actually, I just like anything home made. Or even anything, really, except generic bath salt-type smelly stuff that someone’s picked up from TK’s with very little thought. Although even then, if it’s smelly stuff from Lush, that’s different). There may also have been some crafting occurring.

December’s Smash was quieter than usual; I compèred, dressed as a Christmas decoration (but, even if I do say so myself, a fetching one). The smaller numbers in the audience meant it was as quiet and still as a Christmas carol lyric, which although slightly different than usual gave it quite an intimate atmosphere (then again, I might just be saying that to make myself feel better).

Books wot I av readed: I finished Number 9 Dream, which was good (but not as good as Cloud Atlas). I also read Slaughterhouse 5, which, given its status as sci-fi classic I probably should have read years ago. Now there’s an odd book. Very clever, great fun to read but disturbingly emotionless. I suppose Vonnegut had to numb himself to the painful realities of war or some such thing but I swear if I read “so it goes” one more time I would have hurled the book out of the
window. (Also, the bit about the dog and the steak made me heave). Having said that, it made me realise I should say “oh well, shit happens”, “worse things happen at sea” and “draw a line: step over it” less often as it’s probably deeply annoying for everyone else! And now, I’ve started on Alien Bodies by Lawrence Miles of Doctor Who fame. Which is great, actually, if a bit convoluted.
(And I re-read a couple of chapters of The Rainbow, after Vonnegut, because, crikey, you know, if you’ve been in a desert sometimes you want to go and stand in a rainstorm!)

Other Things: oh what the heck, you all know already anyway: I now have A Boyfriend and he’s dead nice and all that jazz.

* Him off of Popstars, or something.
** Five whole minutes in Cherub’s Dad’s car!
*** Actually, I put Carols from Kings on the day after bommie night.
**** Not, I hasten to add, Healthy Biscuits. These will be nicely
unhealthy. I’m even going to use Actual Butter.

Hello, readers:
 
A rare update! Oh well; as a wise blogger once said about her updates, it’s not like you have to pay for it…
 
I plan to update Cherub’s blog at some point soon too as he and I have been doing lots of Fun Stuff lately.
 
But me: well. I’ve been working; work is changing a little at the moment; my hours and times are reducing (along with my salary, but hey ho) and becoming a little less child-friendly, but after my initial horror I’ve calmed down and am dealing with it all. It does, in fairness, have the potential to become a tad misery-inducing, but I’m trying to let it just wash over my head. KEEP CALM, as the now-overused-but-I-suppose-it’s-because-it-captured-the-zeitgeist-or-something slogan says, AND CARRY ON.
 
I’ve done little with the house, although a composter I ordered some time ago finally arrived the other day to be greeted with inordinate excitement. I can’t tell you exactly why, but I do genuinely feel happier about the state of the outside now I have my composter. It feels like I’ve started the lengthy process of Getting It Sorted Out. Also, I’ve put one of the raised beds down, and will erect the other one at the weekend I think. It’s happening; just very, very slowly.
 
In fact, paying it a little more thought, it’s because good soil, assisted by compost, is the foundation of a garden, and now I can make my own, albeit slowly. Also there’s something very satisfying about chopping up vegetables knowing that even the bits that are thrown away are going to nourish your family in some way. Which I suppose sounds a bit Gaia but what can I say? I’m in touch with my inner hippy.
 
Cooking: autumn, for me, is all about root vegetable soups. Squash and pumpkin, parsnip and swede, carrot and coriander… perfect! Also, biscuits. (Then again, regardless of seasonality, it’s always about the biscuits.) I made some delicious strawberry jam last night; Janet (our local greengrocer) had a punnet of strawberries that were just reaching their best before end date so sold them to me for a mere 20p. I hulled them, froze them and last night finally got around to making jam from them and although one punnet only makes a tiny amount of jam it is still gorgeous.
 
I’ve been reading, of course; I finished Sunday at the Skin Laundrette, which is an excellent collection; a wonderful mix of the everyday and the surreal. However, I’ve also tried, mostly in vain, to muster the same enthusiasm for The Striped World. I know it’s excellent; it’s just not for me. (I know; I’m fussy.) And in novels, I’m reading Number 9 Dream, given I adored the same author’s Black Swan Green and absolutely was blown away and wowed by his Cloud Atlas. It’s strange though; after reading lots of poetry I struggle to get into a novel and the first 100 or so pages are a real slog, no matter how brilliant the book. It’s not just the obvious (poems are shorter) but it’s that I approach them differently too.
 
Of course, I’ve spent a little more time at the Turk’s again with mates lately, and I do hope we keep it up so it becomes a tradition (like it felt it was this time last year). And October’s Smash was fabulous; I hope November’s Smash is even better (and in a rare display of organisational skill, I’ve already booked December’s Smash for the 9th of that month).
 
And writing, too; I’ve written three new poems since the last Smash and re-worked a performance-type poem too. If there’s time in November, I’ll read them all. I’m starting to find that even if I write something A Bit Shit (I wrote a poem about data entry lately. It was an attempt at a performance piece that went badly awry) it’s better than writing nothing at all, as it ensures the ink keeps flowing. Well, not the ink, as I’ve moved away from scribbling everything in A4 pads and have finally* reached a point where I can type directly onto the computer, altering and editing afterwards.
 
Oh, I bought a corset. A proper one, with steel “bones”. The “fashion corsets” don’t hold up so well, literally, if you’re blessed/cursed with an ample bosom and as this was reduced, I bought it immediately and have since been trying very hard not to spend all the money I don’t really have on more Corsets Of The Day promotions from the same site. Actually, the corset sizing is great; I measure between 33” and 34” around the waist but because there’s a lot of give in the corset (and a six inch “modesty panel”) it meant I could buy a 28” steel boned corset and wear it relatively loosely. However, it got me a little more unwanted attention than I’m used to on a girls’ night out,** so I’m now in two minds about wearing it out again for a similar occasion. But I’m sure with a glass of wine I’ll get over it. And I’d recommend that site to anyone looking to enhance their curves.***
 
Halloween was spent with me as the Devil and Cherub as a skeleton. There are pictures on facebook, if you’re my “friend” there. We were at my friend A’s house, and she lives in Cressington. I’ll add more information to Cherub’s blog but basically, we had a fabulous time. And tomorrow night, me, Cherub and a couple of friends are going to this, like we did last year, too. Cherub is more excited about the candyfloss than the fireworks, though.
 
And in Other News, well, you know. :)
 
I’ll do another update, a proper one, in which I’ll write a ridiculously over-lengthy pretentious post about a book or painting or something, in the next few weeks. Promise!
 
*It’s only taken ten years.
**Including, as many of you know, my spurning of two hipsters, a French one, and a not-French one with a moustache.
***Or whatever other euphemistic way you can think of to say “push your tits up under your chin”.