Digging for victory

My frustration at being unable to produce a half-decent essay has resulted in various attempts to do the garden instead. I spent a good couple of hours digging over one planting bed, throwing out stones and old coins and trying to work in what I think is compost from the bottom of the garden. The result of all that effort? The neighbourhood cat -- a large, tortoiseshell bruiser -- promptly used it as a litter tray. I now understand why our neighbours were so resentful of Plato and Aristotle. However, I have persevered and planted out some herbs and sowed some radish seeds. The packet instructions for the latter were incomprehensible to the novice gardener, what with their instructions to rake the soil to a fine tilth and sow seeds thinly in broad drills. I just dug some shallow trenches, chucked the seeds in, covered them up with a bit of soil. Bingo! Just a week later, I have seedlings! I am a vegetable gardener, a foot soldier in the fight against food miles and climate change! (As long as I can still eat my Waitrose-imported French butter with sea salt crystals with my radishes.)





And despite my best efforts to kill it off, the clematis on the tree at the bottom of the garden -- and just about every other plant that I hacked away at -- continues to flourish. It's really rather pretty. I do need a book of plants though; I have no clue what any of the trees or plants in the garden actually are. If anyone can identify these weird blue buds, let me know.

In which I attempt to go into Winchester but am thwarted by Blue Star's outrageous pricing policy

What is the purpose of a bus service? Is it to a) provide an alternative means of transport for those that don't wish to use their cars or b) generate huge profits by extorting overinflated fares from those that don't have or don't wish to use a car? I ask because Blue Star -- our local bus "service" -- would appear to fall into the latter group. After the misery of grinding out 2000 asinine words on representations of innocence in The Innocents, I decided to reward myself by heading into Winchester to get a haircut: perhaps if I could see the screen, writing wouldn't be so incredibly hard.* Rather than polluting the environment, I decided to hop on a bus, thinking that there was a 3 quid ticket that gave me access to the buses all day. Apparently not. I could either have a single fare for 3.10 or a return for 5.10 -- for a 10-minute journey! These fares are ludicrous. I can park at the leisure centre car park for 60p for 2 hours. What incentive do I have to pay an additional 4.50 for the inconvenience of travelling on a tatty bus stuffed with loutish schoolchildren?4.50 is a couple of pasties from the Cornish Pasty Shoppe, or a coffee and a bun in Starbucks, or a couple of paperbacks from the Oxfam Book Shop! If PJ had been with me, we would have been down 10 quid on driving in! If Hampshire County Council want people to leave their cars at home and take the bus to work/town, they have to make it considerably cheaper than parking.

I got off the bus and walked home in a sulk, kicking stones as I went. Bah!

* I've never had writer's block before; it sucks.

Break your arm, mate for life

Yesterday, we petted Harry the hedgehogs and some goats at Brambridge garden centre; today, I got to see a swan, some goslings, and some sleeping ducks at Sheffield Park. Lovely! (I also saw two dead foxes on the roads home, but I'm trying not to think about them.)

"I, for one, welcome our new robot overlords"

My second vacation of the year! Instead of driving across the Californian/Nevada deserts, I'm slogging my way through another university essay -- what fun! PJ has again wisely opted to head for the Disneyfied hell that is Orlando for yet another analyst "conference" instead of mopping my fevered brow at home. I don't particularly enjoy writing these essays. Thinking about them, fine. Watching the films, also fine. Coming up with devestating critiques, not a problem. Getting those fabulous ideas down on paper? Not so easy.

To get the creative juices flowing and to celebrate my final arrival into the world of adulthood, courtesy of my new National Trust card, I decided to visit an NT property after dropping PJ off at Gatwick. I would then meander home along the country lanes that make up the A272, avoiding all that nasty motorway driving. The NT handbook revealed Sheffield Park Gardens, a mere 30 minutes from Gatwick and just a couple of miles from said A272 -- and, wonderfully, the setting for some of the exterior shots for The Innocents, the subject of my essay! Perfect -- I love it when a plan comes together.

It all started off well. PJ got to Gatwick in time for his flight; I headed into the rather pretty town of East Grinstead -- home to multiple cults and lots of charity shops -- for a quick mosey round before heading down to Sheffield Park for opening time. A brisk walk around the lakes, some lovely shots of the house and gardens, a sandwich and some apple juice in the cafe, and then I hit the road to head home. I then made the mistake of following satnav. Denied its initial suggestion of M23/M25/M3, it sulked and then pretended to show me a route via Petersfield. I followed it dutifully, registering some concern when it took me south -- much further south than I'd intended to go. In fact, it took me down to Lewes and then along the hellish A27, all the way to the M27/M3. Gah! We've driven this route before and it's all Brighton suburbs, 40 mph, multiple roundabouts, and then roadworks round Portsmouth. By the time I got home, I had a screaming headache from the heat and frustration, and didn't feel like doing any work on my essay. Time to make some biscuits instead.

I have yet to experience the delights of Midhurst and Petersfield, but I will -- satnav be damned!

"But it LOOKED dead!"

A typical British Bank Holiday Monday: grey skies and pouring rain to start, followed by lovely, lovely sunshine. As a result, we were finally able to make it out into the jungle masquerading as our back garden. PJ instead opted to spend 10 hours on a plane to San Francisco rather than join my family in slashing away at the undergrowth. Probably wise: it turns out that my sister and I are somewhat "secateur-happy" and generated many bags of garden waste, including most of a clematis that was wound round the big tree in our back garden and that looked to me like dead ivy. No matter. It will either grow back or it won't; there's not much I can do to rectify the situation now. We also discovered that we have fennel, a huge bay tree, and a "legless lizard" that likes sunning itself on one of the many heaps of decaying wood that litter our garden. Nature in the raw!

And, of course, it's not a proper Bank Holiday without at least one trip to the dump -- sorry, household waste recycling centre; my father managed three in 12 hours, a new record for our family. The garden now looks fantastic -- and will look even better when we hire someone to remove all the dead wood. I'm off to bask alongside our lizard right now. Pip pip!

And the rain it raineth every day

Gardening still remains something of a black art to us; despite our keenness to get out and explore the wilderness that is our land, the weather has conspired against us. The occasional day of sunshine has been spent indoors unpacking boxes, while the rest of the time it has been very wet, cold, and (on Sunday) spectatularly thundery. I am trying to draw inspiration from the allotment holders I can see from my office window; during one torrential downpour this morning, one hardy chap was outside, dibbing away and planting lettuces in his patch of mud. I remain unconvinced that this is an enjoyable activity.

I can has storage?

The past six weeks has largely consisted of shifting boxes from one place to another, trying not to trip over them or scream too loudly during the process. We have so much stuff -- and this doesn't include the 5,000 LPs and myriad comic boxes that PJ has in storage. Seriously. I thought that moving to a larger house with more rooms than we've ever had before would make life easier, less cluttered, but no; we are still held hostage by our vast amounts of stuff. As a result, we've had to take a two-pronged approach: 1) "recycle" lots of things straight into Winchester's fine "waste recycling centre" (the middle-class term for the dump), and 2) buy more storage solutions. The first tack is somewhat easier for me than for PJ; I'm a chucker, he's a hoarder -- but he's doing extremely well and has even binned some of those 2006 press releases for PC games he's never played. Congratulations! Part 2 arrived in the form of a palette of plastic storage crates, which the poor deliveryman had to wheel up our deconstructed road as his lorry couldn't get round the corner. These lurked ominously in our garage for a couple of days, before starting to be filled with those things from our cardboard packing boxes that we apparently "need" yet won't need to "access" for another 10 years.* Now, if I can just get that vinyl and those comics onto eBay without PJ noticing ...



*I'm not moving for at least a decade. This has been exhausting.

Words to strike fear into any heart

"Darius Danesh is Rhett Butler ..."

He most certainly isn't. Blasphemy!

"I said it was All Creatures Great and Small!"

We return from the pub quiz. Not triumphant and with domestic harmony slightly rattled. We came joint 7th out of 13, sunk by our inability to discern TV theme tunes and an astonishingly bad third general knowledge (GK3, as it's known to the regulars) round. Halfway home, we had to return to the pub, PJ having forgotten to settle up, and it being the sort of trusting place that doesn't require you to leave your card behind the bar. Still, it wasn't all bad. We had a storming entertainment round, proved strong on GK4, had a great plate of complimentary half-time chips, and met several of our friendly neighbours. Result! I think we're going to like it here.

I can has napalm?

For the first time in a month, the sun is shining and it's warm enough to do some much-needed work outside. I start on treating our bedraggled garden furniture set: sand it down, then apply noxious chemicals courtesy of Ronseal -- and yes, it does appear to do exactly what it says on the tin. PJ is fixing guttering, filling wood with plasticky stuff, and cleaning out gutters -- a filthy job, but somebody has to do it and he's taller than me. Then it's the fun stuff, hacking away at the tree out back that keeps tapping against our bedroom window. And then chopping up the branches so that they fit into our 'green waste' recycling bag. And the other bags.

It turns out that the former occupants had an even greater collection of bits of wood than PJ. The stuff is everywhere; behind our two garden sheds, along the side of the house, hiding behind trees. We have a wood-burning stove, which we used for the first time last night -- fabulously warm! -- but it will take us years to get through it all, if we can get it dry enough and in small enough pieces to burn. In the meantime, it has to go somewhere ... back down the side of the house?

On the plus side, being outside was lovely, and we wandered through the allotments at the back to check on our fence -- and met a very nice couple. We now need to meet Norman, the allotment guru who will no doubt give us lots of good advice on what to do with our garden other than dousing it in petrol, lighting a match, and then covering the burnt remanins with tarmac (my preferred option). I can't wait.

"So, what does the blue box mean?"

I am stumped. I have just told PJ that, on second viewing, Mulholland Drive makes sense. Apparently, not falling asleep halfway through really helps. And realizing that the first 90 minutes was meant to be a pilot for a TV series, and the final 30 minutes are just David Lynch making up some stuff to pad it out into a feature film and give some sense of "resolution." But the blue box? And the caveman hiding in the garbage behind Winkie's on Sunset Blvd? And the dwarf in the room with the microphone? Not a clue.

Damn you, David Lynch!

A tale of two postcodes

Apparently, our house straddles the Eastleigh/Winchester border -- and both local authorities want us! Or rather, they both want us to pay council tax. We thought we were in Winchester; after all, they collect our rubbish and it's their name on the road signs. But then Eastleigh contacted us -- with a bill. A cheaper bill than Winchester's. Hmm. Calls to the councils ensued and we let them mud-wrestle for the pleasure of receiving our cash. Eastleigh won. It turns out that our house was re-zoned back in 1992, getting a new Eastleigh postcode. However, the Royal Mail and the Land Registry still use the Winchester postcode. So that's what we're going to do: Winchester postcode, Eastleigh council tax bill. Best of both worlds.

And best of all, we got to sort it out in English. Joy!

We're in

Kind of. We've spent two nights under our new roof, have got broadband up and running, and we've even walked over to our local supermarket -- Waitrose! (For non-UK readers, Waitrose is the most upmarket supermarket chain in the UK. Everything is lovely but expensive.) We strolled across the M3, down through the expensive end of Chandler's Ford and into Waitrose, loaded up our rucksacks, and stopped off for a swift pint at the King Rufus on the way back. It's a pleasant 25 minute stroll each way, beer not included. On the bikes, probably 10 minutes, tops. Hurrah!

Today, though, we were white van man incarnate. We picked up our gleaming white Ford Transit, PJ maneouevered it expertly through the streets of Winchester, and we loaded it up with our "big" pieces of furniture. We still have a few carloads of "stuff" left (and most of our clothes), and then the excitement of yet another trip to Homebase and a trip to the dump. Guess which one I'm looking forward to most?

"I think we need a bigger staircase"

We pause for breath, halfway up the stairs. At this point, it strikes me that we may have made a very big mistake in trying to get the lovely G-plan sideboard up into my study. It weighs a ton, is awkardly shaped, and PJ is in imminent danger of being crushed beneath it. I now deeply regret the fact that we haven't written our wills and that I don't have my mobile phone on me; if anything goes wrong, I will have to clamber over his squished remains to call for help.

One panic attack, two bruised ankles, and a destroyed curtain rail later, we get it into my room. It looks lovely, if also somewhat bruised. We will never move it -- ir us -- again.

Not so fussy now, blackbird?

I put some aging pears out on the shed roof on Thursday in an attempt to entice the birds to the "garden" and thus enliven my afternoon hard at work at the editing coal face. The birds pecked disinterestedly at them and then buggered off to find some more appetizing worms. But they're back! Oh yes, the snow has driven the worms underground and now the birds are grateful for my humble offering! Hah!

I think I'm getting just a little too involved with the birds here. Moving away from them will be a good thing.

"It's snowing!"

PJ curses and retreats under the duvet as I draw back the curtain and reveal Winchester in all its snowy glory. He clearly does not share my child-like sense of wonderment at this meteorological condition -- or is still tired after playing Half-Life 2 late into the night. I ignore his grumbling and head outside to take photos and offer up a silent apology to the TV weather services. They have been predicting snow for several days now, but I scoffed at them -- particularly after we strolled round to The Otter for a post-painting pint on a balmy Friday evening. I will never ignore their forecasts again.



Snow! So pretty! So wet! So cold! So NOT April. I'm going back to bed.

Collective ass-covering

Since when did advertisers start feeling the need to footnote their ads? Every beauty product commercial is accompanied by hundreds* of disclaimers: "Tested on 500 women"; "Compared with a control group not using toothpaste"; "Penelope's eyelashes have been enhanced with false lashes". Best -- and most stupid -- of all? The ad we just watched for Garnier ultra prolife x with irritating Davina Mcall showed her squeezing a rubber ball to demonstrate the plumping of the skin cells -- and was accompanied by "dramatisation" at the bottom of the screen. Really, squeezing a rubber ball is a demonstration? No shit, Sherlock!

Has there been a spate of lawsuits in the UK of which I'm unaware? Are advertisers really interested in promoting the rigor of representing data? And why is it only on beauty products? Do these footnotes make the product more likely to work? Or do advertisers think it will convince us oh-so-cynical women to shell out our hard-earned pounds on their snake oil? Whatever the reason, I still hate 'em.

* Actual number of disclaimers three, based on a sample of one ad watched in the past 5 minutes.

More delivery woes

Actually, just one tale of woe. So far, the bed, washing machine, armchair and sofa have all turned up on time, no problems. But the gym equipment was another matter. Oh, it turned up alright. But the delivery person (I'm making no gender assumptions) simply dumped 3 of the 5 items in our open, without-doors carport in full view of the street, and headed off. No phone call, no delivery note to say that it was there -- or that it was only a partial delivery. Cue phone calls to the company and a weary operative sighing "Not again?" Yesterday, the same thing happened with the remaining two boxes. Admittedly, it would be difficult for someone to make off with two 21kg weights, a stand, and a fairly heavy gym bench, and I guess it shows we live on an extremely safe street, but still. A note would have been nice.

My new favorite paint

I've used brilliant white emulsion, undercoat and primer, duck egg satin finish, whispy cloud matt, fire-engine red gloss, but my all-time favorite paint has to be Dulux's Light & Space Rich Matt in Lunar Falls. Why? It's not that it covers easily or that it really does bounce light around the room, popping against our black and eau de nil tiles. No, it's the fact that it smells of custard. A proper, hand-made, creme brulee-style egg custard. PJ scoffed when I told him, but on having a brushful wafted under his nose, he had to agree. Custard.

Scented paint: Truly we live in the future.

Spring woz here

What a week of weather. Rain, sleet, hail, snow, and the occasional flash of sunshine. Yesterday was gorgeous, so my hopes were high that today we'd finally be able to paint in sunlight and clear the gutters at the new house. (Ah, the glamour of home ownership!) Today, it's tipping down. Again. Enjoy the photos of spring blossoms (and pigeon bottom) that I managed to take yesterday.

It's back!

My favorite waste of time (and small amounts of money)! After a winter spent resting -- hopefully somewhere warm -- the second-hand bookstore in the Cathedral is open for business again. A huge assortment of books; people pawing through them at odd times of the day; and the fact that it operates on a trust basis. Love it.

The best pesto recipe in the world ... ever

After all that painting, we needed something easy to eat last night. Luckily, the veggie box man had been, so we had Jerusalem artichoke soup with parsley and nut pesto. Now, the latter is probably my recipe of the year. Hugh Fearnley-Whatsisname published it in The Guardian about a month ago and I've made it several times. It's fabulous in pleasantly bland soups like the Jerusalem artichoke one; it's great on pasta; and you could use it in an omelette, as the basis for a flan, etc. I'm not saying the possibilities are endless, but it does keep well and tastes divine. And it's SO easy!

Simply put 100gm peeled/cooked chestnuts into a food processor with 75gm grated hard cheese (cheddar or hard goat cheese) with 1 clove of garlic and 1/2 tsp rock salt and some pepper. Blend until a grainy paste. Add 2 bunches of flat-leaf parsley and blend again. Add the juice of 1/2 lemon, and while blending, add about 200ml oil (a mix of olive and something bland, like sunflower or groundnut). You may not need all the oil; I like my pesto thicker rather than runny, so used less.

This makes a huge amount of pesto, so it's just as easy to make half the amount. In addition, I substituted some of my Trader Joe's pecans and toasted almonds for the chestnuts last night and used lime juice from a bottle (if it's good enough for Nigella ...) and it still tasted great. I think I actually prefer it to home-made basil pesto, and it certainly keeps better (in the fridge, covered, with a bit of oil on top). Try it; you won't regret it!

Whistle while you work

It's easier to paint while listening to The Ramones than it is to Kid A by Radiohead. Fact.

Now I wanna sniff some VOCs

Readers, we have completed. We have the keys to our new house. We have been to Homebase and spent huge amounts of money on paint and tools and ladders. And we have painted. Ah, VOCs -- the lovely chemicals that make paint smell so ... painty!

We've also made some rather nice discoveries about our new home. We have a freezer! What we thought was another cupboard in the kitchen turned out to be a good-size three-door freezer! The central heating works beautifully, which is a good thing given that it's been snowing here. And the boiler provides a great hot spot for proving bread (or which our future cats will sleep on). Contrary to my mother's warning, the rooms actually seem larger than we had remembered. And PJ's already discovered that crow-barring the panels off the chimney breast in the conservatory will probably be a good idea (just as well given that he's already done one).

The downsides? There's a little slope and lip on the drive that makes reversing in somewhat challenging. The garden needs a fair amount of work, not of all which can be done with a blowtorch and some tar. And the skirting boards could do with replacing in the lounge. But these are details, mere details. Overall, two thumbs up!

Debt-ridden days are here again

We got a text earlier today from one of our banks to tell us that our mortgage was now open. Yay!

In the midst of life, we are in debt, etc.

Awesome

I don't particularly like marketers or advertisers. In fact, I rather like Charlie Brooker's advice on how to deal with them:

"Stroll up to someone in marketing and after punching them square in the face because they bloody well deserve it, ask them to define the term 'branding.' Chances are they'll start babbling about 'consumer consciousness' and 'product personality,' at which point you can punch them square in the face for a second time. Hey presto! You're getting a cathartic workout, and they're learning something valuable. Everybody wins. Apart from them, obviously."

However, occasionally they do come up with some great ads. Like this one.



I know, you've probably all seen it by now. But it still makes me laugh. Especially the pussy cat.

Fish n' chip fingers

I have introduced PJ to the delights of natural cleaning products -- in this case, white vinegar. He's been cleaning the black spots off some of our windowsills and the house now smells like a chippy. But in a good way.

Actually, is there a bad way for a house to smell like a chippy? It hardly seems possible.

More vegetables disguised as sweet treats

After beetroot and courgettes, it's the turn of pumpkin. We've had two in the veggie box recently, and it was time to use one of them up. Off to the always-reliable Baking Bites for a recipe -- Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Cookies. Chop pumpkin, peel pumpkin, steam pumpkin, puree pumpkin, throw all the ingredients into a food processor and let it do the rest of the hard work.



They're almost good for you -- low in fat, full of pumpkin-y goodness, but probably a tad too much sugar to count as truly beneficial. Doesn't matter; they taste great.



Still, that only used about a quarter of my (small) pumpkin. I now have a bag of puree in the freezer, some slices of pumpkin roasted with spices, and am using the remainder in a cauliflower and pumpkin, Jamie Oliver-inspired lasagne. Not that I'm going to be very hungry, by the time it's ready: I've already had 4 cookies. Damn.

Harry, He's Here To Help

Or rather, Harry, we're here to help. Thanks to my lovely colleagues, I am now the proud sponsor of Harry, an abandoned dog who resides with the caring Dogs' Trust. They've been running heart-rending ads for the past few months on one of the channels that's always on at the gym, and I've been pestering PJ for months to let me have an abandoned puppy. Well, sponsoring Harry is a fabulous -- and easy --alternative. Thank you, my friends!

Royally pissed off

Not that the UK doesn't offer up its share of bureaucratic frustrations. Last month, PJ treated me to a copy of Viz -- scatalogical entertainment best enjoyed on a "once every two years" basis. Not much had changed since I read it last, but it did feature an amusing board game based on waiting in for a package to be delivered, with all squares featuring some form of humiliating (and scatalogical) failure to get said package. It was absolutely spot-on. Postie ringing the doorbell, flinging the "you were out" card through the letter-box, and sprinting for the van? Oh yes, all too familiar. I'm currently waiting for an Amazon package to be delivered. Monday morning, I head downstairs at 8, waiting for the postie. At 9, I head upstairs for 30 seconds. When I check the letter-box an hour later, there's the dreaded card. Off I head, as usual, to the Royal Mail's helpful www.royalmail.com/redelivery site, as mentioned on the card. Only the URL no longer works. Nowhere on the site can you arrange for your package to be redelivered. I filled in a "please contact me" form -- and 48 hours later, I'm still waiting to be contacted. And still waiting for my package to arrive.

Oh well, I guess it's actually marginally better than the private delivery company that threw two of our packages over our back garden fence for us to collect -- once during a torrential downpour. Good job neither package contained (unusually) any half-decent electronics kits.

Dutch bureaucracy -- eternal pain

Even after almost a year away, we can't escape. We're in the middle of doing our 2007 tax returns for the delightful Belastingdienst -- or rather, paying someone to do our 2007 tax returns -- and we've just received a bill from the Amsterdam City Council for our 2008 poll-tax-equivalent. On the house we no longer own. Which they know, because they assessed the 2008 poll-tax-equivalent amount according to the sales values of three houses in the neighbourhood -- including ours.

I'm guessing that the new owner of the property has not registered at the Gemeente -- given that she's non-resident in the Netherlands. Therefore, the Gemeente has us down as the owners still, and that's why they've billed us for 500 euros. The only number to call is a 5-digit freefone number from within the Netherlands, and I'm sure we could fix this by filling in one of the 10 pages of forms sent along with the bill, only none of them are in English (or available in English on the Web site -- because clearly NO expats live in Amsterdam) and I rapidly forgot all of the limited amount of Dutch that I once knew.

Blood. Pressure. Rising.

Massive storms batter Britain?

Pah! I've cycled home in worse. It's not a massive storm until garden furniture is blown from roof terraces onto the streets that you're cycling along below. While the police have been advising that people make essential journeys only, I ventured out to buy a Cadbury's Creme Egg and suffered no ill effects. And yes, it was essential.

There will be blood

No, not a film review, but a pretty good guess at what might happen in the kitchen should I choose to make beetroot crisps. Mandolines are excellent at producing beautiful, paper-thin slices of vegetable but notorious for also producing beautiful, paper-thin slices of finger. Not today, however. I managed to avoid setting myself up for a life of crime but instead produced -- quickly, easily, and cheaply -- a bowl of fab crisps, the sort that I would pay pounds for in the local upmarket provisions store. A recipe? Peel a couple of beetroot, slice using a mandonline, heat a couple of inches of sunflower oil in a pan until it is very hot (or a piece of beetroot starts bubbling immediately you put it in), drop in handfuls of beetroot slices and fry until they turn orange. Scoop them out onto kitchen towel to drain and then toss with sea salt. Truly finger-lickin' good.



Talking of colorful veggies, we've also been blessed this month with bags of purple sprouting broccoli. We're fans of the green variety, but this is just so much prettier. And when lightly blanched and then fried with several cloves of garlic, some chopped anchovy fillets, and a sprinkling of dried chilli flakes, it tastes divine.



On the dessert front, I caved this weekend and made ice cream. In this weather? Ah, well this was an ice cream that gave you a distinct glow after eating. Winchester is home to a branch of fab chocolate shop Montezuma's, and my current favorite from their range is white chocolate with ginger and chilli. I decided to make an ice cream inspired by this bar and again, it was super easy. Finely grate a 1-inch piece of fresh ginger and add to it about 250 ml of double cream. Whip till it reaches the soft-peak stage, throw in some small pieces of crystallized ginger and then fold in about 110 gm of melted white chocolate. Stir together, pour into a container with a lid, and stick in the freezer for a few hours. It wasn't quite frozen by the time we ate, thanks to a truly useless ice-box freezer -- roll on April and all-new appliances! -- so I'm calling it my white chocolate and ginger semi-freddo. Next time, I might even try adding a few chilli flakes ... No pictures, it disappeared all too quickly.

Pan's Labyrinth

Stunning. As in "I felt stunned, beaten over the head, kicked in the stomach, after watching this film". It wasn't easy seeing it for the first time in class, having a short break, and then having to engage in discussion about uterine imagery etc, that's for sure. PJ had watched this some weeks back while I was indulging in my preferred form of gloom, detective novels. The whole fantasy element has never really appealed to me; I guess I've extended my general dislike of children to my inner child, too, so I wasn't particularly looking forward to this. I already knew what happened at the end, which, as it turns out, was probably a good thing. I have a tendency to cry during films, and I don't think that's acceptable behavior in a film studies class. Plus, puffy eyes and a bright red nose? Not attractive.

So, the film. Wow. The fantasy elements were quite limited. Sergi Lopez is clearly the go-to Spanish actor for psychotic killers, but with a marvellous range -- his Captain Vidal is quite different to the more comedic Harry, in "Harry, He's Here to Help". A fairly hefty amount of gore, all the more frightening when it was in "real" life: I can cope with fairies being eaten, but find torture with pliers more disturbing (thankfully). Maribel Verdu, also excellent. Overall, quite the best picture I've seen in ages and well worth seeing unless you like happy endings.

Some questions

Why is the BBC so half-arsed about putting shows on Virgin's On-Demand service? Don't they realize that they set expectations -- and thus people's diaries -- if they put the first couple of episodes of a new show on, and are thus creating frustration and rage when they fail to add subsequent episodes?

How long will it take me to find the remaining 6 Inspector Rebus novels in charity bookshops around Winchester?

Does the Disney Corporation WANT to drive me into the arms of peer-to-peer file sharing networks to find a copy of Snow White to study for a paper? I mean, 47 quid for a used VHS copy? That's outrageous!

Am I the only person who checks their shoes and boots for spiders before putting them on?

Three films: Juno, Dracula, and Joan Crawford

While the cat's away -- or in this case, PJ's in Boston -- the mouse gets to watch films. I even ventured out of the house to our local cinema to catch an early-evening screening of Juno. I sat watching the numerous car ads (and btw Jaguar, I'm not sure it's a good idea to create an ad that makes me feel queasy; cit ertainly puts me off the car) and generally enjoying the civilised ambience that abounds in a Winchester cinema at 6.30. Just as the credits started, however, two teenage (?) girls came in late, sat down next to me, and proceeded to chat loudly. And then SMS their friends through the film. And rummage through their bags for stuff. The chap in front was so irritated by them kicking their feet against the back of his chair that he moved -- and I should have done the same, but preferred to feel righteously indignant instead. Despite this, I enjoyed the film. I'd be somewhat leary of seeing it: the writer, Diablo Cody, contributes to a forum that I frequent, so I'd followed the gestation/filming/promotion/reviews/awards and subsequent backlash in some detail and was kind of tired of it before going. However, it was entertaining: definitely a "woman's" film but in a good way -- (non-exclusively) female concerns handled in a sympathetic and amusing fashion, and with no sense of women as mere adjuncts to men or humourless deniers of male fun and freedom. Sweet.

Friday night saw another stab at Hammer, this time Dracula, Prince of Darkness. Readers, I've tried, I really have, but I just don't like Hammer films much. This one was not particularly gory or scary or sexy or funny. It was mildly interesting as a period piece but even that palls after about 20 minutes. Christopher Lee didn't appear for ages, and when he did he was silent! In the accompanying documentary, he reveals that he thought the dialogue for Dracula was so appalling that he refused to say it -- a silent protest, if you will. His hand acting was marvellous though, reminiscent of the finest hand work on The Addams Family. Still, not enough to save this from being really rather tedious.

Another period piece, but far from tedious, was Possessed -- Joan Crawford as a crazy-in-love stalker who murders a thoroughly dislikeable Van Heflin when he spurns her advances. A typical 1940s medical drama, complete with spurious and ludicrous diagnoses and treatments, this contained Joan Crawford at her finest -- all massive shoulder pads, stern jaw, and over-emoted hysteria. It's by no means a classic, but there are some interesting narrative tricks and Joan really gives her all. Much more fun than Dracula!

What's coming up this week? Pan's Labyrinth in class tomorrow, and then I'm going to press on with the Hammer box set, but this time with Bette Davis in The Nanny. Then another Joan Crawford -- Humoresque? -- followed by a much more upbeat William Powell/Myrna Loy flick. I feel I ought to see There Will Be Blood, but the thought of three hours of Daniel Day Lewis chewing scenery is more than I can bear right now.

The birds

I'm going to miss the garden shed that I can see from my desk. When I'm on my own, I put bits of bread on it and watch the birds fight over it. Today, two pikey giant crows turned up for the first time. They knew they were interlopers -- they sat on a neighbouring roof, carefully checking out the hood, then swooped down, picked up as many chunks of bread as they could, and scarpered. I would not have believed that a bird could look positively shifty before today, but I guess that's what hardcore twitching does for you.

At one point, there were several of these thieving crows perched on the roof opposite, silhouetted against the sky. I failed to get a picture, but the image below should give you some idea of what it was like. Just call me Tippi.

That's what I'm talking about!

I'll admit it's a little more challenging when he's Frank Quinlan in A Touch of Evil. Oh well, nobody's perfect.

Film reviews: Joan Fontaine x 2

Yesterday it was Rebecca; this evening Jane Eyre. Two wonderful Gothic films, with Joan Fontaine as the lead, long shots through archways, dark secrets, and dodgy first wives. Rebecca is the classic, taking the Oscar for Best Picture in 1940 thanks to Hitchcock's direction. Jane Eyre is more of a standard studio pic from 1944; you can tell it's studio-bound and cheaper, the photography is grainier, less lush, and there are gaps in the narrative. And yet, Jane Eyre wins every time for me. Why? Because in the battle between Laurence Olivier as Maxim de Winter and Orson Welles as Edward Rochester, it's simply no contest. Orson Welles every time. I've had the hugest thing for him ever since watching the bewildering Lady from Shanghai at the age of 12. Then of course, came Citizen Kane, his narration in The Magnificent Ambersons, and (most wonderfully) his Harry Lime in The Third Man. That scene where you first see his face, with the kitten at his feet? Swoon! Not for me the bland appeal of George Michael or Simon le Bon. No wonder I didn't have any friends at school ... so out of step with my era.

Best of all, this is course work! It certainly beats my undergraduate life of reading articles in the Journal of Roman Studies. Right, time to order Carrie and La Belle et Bete from LoveFilm.

Now that's customer service

Off to the new house yesterday morning to take measurements, make sure we still it like it -- after all, it has been three months since we saw it, and it's always good to check that you're plunging into debt with good reason. Get into the car, turn the ignition, and ... nothing. Some pathetic sputters, but no signs of life. Which was odd, given that we've never had a problem before and it had worked just fine earlier in the week. So, I called the VW assistance line, and they had an RAC van to us within 20 minutes. On a Sunday. A lovely man checked everything, explained it was the battery -- apparently modern batteries work and work and work and then die abruptly -- drained the battery, and replaced it. An hour and 10 minutes after we first got in the car, we were on our way. Unbelievably good service that guarantees we'll sign up again in May when our free year runs out.

And yes, we did still like the house.

Norwich 1: Barnsley 0

Apparently, we've only lost once in the past 15 games -- a remarkable streak, given our poor form at the start of the year. Glenn Roeder is clearly doing something right, and let's hope it continues. We're now top half of the table (just) and, fingers crossed, should be safe from relegation. Hurrah!

Bye bye arteries

I have discovered the salty-sweet delight of President butter. If pushed, I will eat slivers of it on its own. Yes, it's THAT good!

Devilishly bad

Last month, in a momentary fit of HMV-induced europhoria, we splashed out on The Ultimate Hammer Collection -- 21 of Hammer's best-loved films, but none of the good ones. I mean, no Twins of Evil, but you do get The Plague of the Zombies and The Viking Queen. PJ braved Straight On Till Morning, featuring James Bolam and Rita Tushingham as swingers in 1960s London, in which the most horrifying things were the trousers and sideburns. I decided to opt for The Devil Rides Out and To The Devil A Daughter, a somewhat masochistic exercise.

The Devil Rides Out was fine: Christopher Lee was on good form as the Duc de Richleau, despite looking at one point more like a maitre d' preparing crepes suzette than a witch-hunter casting "good" spells; Paul Eddington played an early variant of his befuddled and bemused good egg who's much happier with a stiff drink in his hand; and none of the characters were offensively dim. The effects were rather good for the time, it barrelled along nicely, and it retained the quaint 1920s settings and upper-classness of the book (pure house porn, by the way).

Encouraged, I then persuaded PJ to watch the (loosely-related) follow-up with me. Oh dear. Oh deary, deary me. Disaster! Set firmly in the 1970s and positioned as the UK's answer to The Exorcist, it features a grumpy Richard Widmark running around London trying to protect a clearly bonkers and frequently naked Nastassja Kinski. You also get to see Christopher Lee's bottom, Honor Blackman offed with a comb, and the weakest ending of any film ever. [Spoiler alert: the evil Satanist is killed by being hit by a small rock.] Our "hero" not only clearly doesn't want to be in the film and shows little remorse at seeing his two innocent friends slaughtered to protect our ungrateful/stupid heroine, but he's wearing the most offensive brown slip-on loafers! The film was, of course, a commercial success in the UK. The best part of the evening was watching the accompanying documentary, in which Christopher Lee called the ending of the movie obscene (albeit not for the rock-throwing) and said that Dennis Wheatley hated it and refused to let Hammer film any of his other movies.

Thank God!

Phew!

Yes, we finally exchanged. Last week, as it happens -- it only took FOUR working days -- but we've been in such a whirl of activity since then that I've hardly had time to post. A birthday party in London, followed by the longest train ride back to Winchester (via Feltham and Virginia Water!), evenings watching Tex Avery's Red Hot Riding Hood -- a highlight of the Film Studies MA -- and an evening out with friends in Winchester. That's right, we finally have friends here. It's taken 10 months, but was well worth it.

What else? Oh yes, the tedium that is trying to find furniture that we both like. We need a new sofa and a bed now, having agreed to buy our vendor's oven. We know what we don't like and we know what we're not prepared to pay, but it's much harder to find something that we positively like. After all, it took us 3 years to buy a sofa for our Amsterdam apartment. However, it looks like M&S are going to come to the rescue. Next week, they're launching a collection of environmentally friendly furniture, made from organic cotton, plastic bottles, and handcrafted by well-paid pixies in magically clean and light workshops, somewhere in the UK. We can therefore opt for "smugness" over "style" -- much the best course of action.

Film reviews

So, we've been catching up on our LoveFilm flicks in the past week. First up, Tell No One, a taut French thriller that was enjoyably twisty and turny. While fairly grim, it had some light-hearted moments set on and around various Parisian housing estates. Equally grim but considerably more bloody was A History of Violence. This was an excellent companion piece to Eastern Promises, which we saw last year: In AHOV, Viggo Mortensen plays [spoiler alert] a bad man gone good, while in EP he was [spoiler alert] a good man who's possibly gone bad. Of course, Cronenberg delights in making the audience complicit in the violence; it's impossible not to (silently) cheer when the son in AHOV beats the bullying jock to a pulp in a hallway brawl, while being impressed at Viggo's throat-stomping antics in Philadelphia. And Viggo was just great in both, making the most of underwritten roles.

Last night I got to watch The Company of Wolves as part of the film course. Despite being a child of the 80s, I'd not seen this before. All I knew about it going in was that it was based on Angela Carter's stories and featured a naked Danielle Dax. While a little long-winded in parts, I enjoyed the fairy-tale pastiche design and the class conflicts outlined within; the wedding story with the rapacious aristos turning into wolves was probably the best in the whole film. And the special effects were pretty good for a 23-year-old film. I can safely say it will probably be more enjoyable than The Curse of Frankenstein, which is also on the agenda for later in the term.

Yet to see: No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood. Neither look like they contain many laughs, though.

Brickbats and a bouquet

48 hours on, and we still haven't exchanged. I now officially hate solicitors and estate agents. Not our solicitor, who is just as frustrated as we are, but our vendors' inept solicitors -- who apparently failed to send on the drainage survey for many weeks, thus resulting in us having to commission our own (at our own expense, of course) -- and most especially the estate agent. This parasite spent the first month hassling me on a near-daily basis to ensure that we could complete quickly, then spent the next two months sending the occasional update, assuring me that everything was on track. Yesterday, she emailed to tell me that she thought my mobile was unreliable -- I'd turned it off during a meeting -- and that I should contact my solicitor to make sure that everything was going through smoothly. Which, of course, it wasn't and through no fault of ours. I swear, if she calls me again, I am totally going to cut off my nose to spite her face by pulling out of the deal -- just to take a great deal of pleasure in watching her lose the commission on two deals. Thank goodness we're not paying her a penny in all of this.

However, Domino's pizza rocks! We ordered online Sunday evening and it arrived, steaming hot and crispy, at our doorstep less than 20 minutes later. Brilliant! I got so used to 45-minute/1 hour delivery times in the Netherlands; I'd forgotten that fast food could be just that. And it was good pizza: a light base, great toppings, and the leftovers reheated perfectly the next day. Two very happy thumbs up.

St Catherine's Hill

Nine months after we moved to Winchester, we finally made it to the top of St Catherine's Hill. In our defence, it's not easy to find the entrance, the weather last year was miserable, and PJ doesn't get out of bed before 1 on a Sunday, so our opportunities have been somewhat limited. However, no such excuses today. It was a beautiful crisp day and we set off up a surprisingly muddy hill. The resulting mud-clogged boots were worth it though; stunning views across Winchester, the shimmering M3, and St Cross Hospital.



There's also a "mismaze" at the top, along with lots of people walking dogs and enjoying the sunshine.



We made our way down the easier, less muddy set of steps on the other side of the hill and meandered home, calling in at The Queen Inn for a (late) lunchtime pint. Lovely.

There's many a slip ...

Of course I shouldn't have said that we'd exchanged. In retrospect, I was jinxing the entire affair. Shortly after my post, PJ told me that our solicitor had rung him and said that the exchange was temporarily on hold -- while our vendors' vendor asked to see their current buildings insurance policy. Of course it did! I mean, what could be more relevant to buying a different property than an existing insurance policy -- and three months into the process to boot!!! Apparently, it should all be resolved on Monday. Or Tuesday.

Keep your fingers crossed

Three months later than planned, we appear to be exchanging contracts on our house. Be prepared for the global economy to plunge into recession in the next six weeks, just as it did last time we bought.

Pessimistic, moi?

Once upon a time ...

Back to school this week; a new semester has started after an insanely long (SIX WEEKS!) Crimbo break. The topic? Fairy Tale and Gothic Horror! This is more like it. Sessions on "mad women in the attic" and "cannibalism, wolves, werewolves", films like A Company of Wolves, The Curse of Frankenstein, and Rebecca, and articles entitled "From Nags to Witches: Stepmothers and Other Ogres." Midway, we have another insanely long break -- this time FOUR WEEKS off for Easter -- and then I have to give a presentation on Functions and Ideologies: Subversive Texts of Civilizing Missions? Fun! Plus, more people in the seminar class. Last term, I was one of only two who turned up on a regular basis, but we're starting off with seven people this time round, so hopefully I won't have to do all the talking. Even I need to skive off from time to time.

A Cornish weekend

An unexpected invite came our way last week, so we found ourselves driving down to Cornwall (again) on Saturday morning. This time, though, we headed along the GLORIOUS A30 from Exeter to Bodmin: What a road! It skirts the top of Dartmoor National Park and then drops down across Bodmin Moor, all of it wonderfully empty duel carriageway. Bliss! Perfect weather, too, with blue skies and sunshine all the way. Our destination was Fowey, a rather pretty fishing village at the end of some treacherous Cornish B roads. We only had time for a quick, calf-killing stroll down to and back up from the village, before afternoon tea, an inspirational speech from Tim Smit (founder of the Eden Project), and a good dinner, accompanied by a murder mystery game delivered in the broadest of Cornish accents. Git orf moi laaaand!



The next morning saw a sea mist roll in, but as we climbed out of Fowey, the sun came out again. Off to the Eden Project to gawk at this remarkable place.

Foggy morning:


Tropical biome:


The beautiful planting and pod-like biomes were wonderful, but best was seeing the before and after pics of this former clay pit. Hard to believe how much has been achieved here in the past 10 years -- well worth a visit if you're in the area.



Then, laden with cacti and clotted cream fudge and toffees, we set off once more for the A30/A303/A34 trip home (and the fly in the ointment that is trying to find a parking space around here on a Sunday evening; we've realized we're not so much buying a house but two parking spaces with a house attached). It's amazing how much you can achieve in 36 hours if you set your mind to it -- or, indeed, if someone organizes it all for you.

Men love them ...

Women fear them

Road trip!

From Palm Springs, we had to head back to Las Vegas and our return flight to the grey and soggy UK. We decided to break the journey overnight, allowing us to a) sleep in at our lovely PS hotel, b) make the ever-vital trip to Best Buy in Palm Desert, and c) cross the empty Nevada desert without worrying about whether we were going to get to the airport in time. And boy, was it empty! I always thought Norfolk was remote -- particularly when driving up the A11 to Norwich in thick fog -- but Nevada is really empty. On the I-10, billboards proudly proclaimed the nearest McDonalds, just 60 miles away in Blythe. General Patton did desert training for US troops in WWII here. And on the 95, you really appreciate cruise control. Mile after mile of undulating straight road, stretching out to the horizon, broken only by weird plants and a rest stop with giant chickens on its roof.





Finding a place to stay mid-way between Palm Springs and Las Vegas? Not so easy. Blythe and Needles were both ... less than attractive. We opted in the end for Loughlin (pronounced LOFF-lin), a casino town on the Colorado River just inside Nevada. A woman at the Movie Colony Hotel had told us that it was what Vegas used ot be like -- "pure" gambling, dirt-cheap hotels, no pretensions. And she was right. We decided to stay at the Colorado Belle, a hotel shaped like a Mississippi paddle boat and a bargain at a mere 60 bucks (including tax) per night. Unlike in Vegas, we also got access to a gym and pool and had coffee-making facilities in our room. Best of all, it had both a micro-brewery and a Krispy Kreme doughnut concession in the hotel. Breakfast? Sorted! In preparation, we hit the gym shortly after arrival, then showered and changed, and wandering through the main casino. It was sparkly and noisy, just what I had been expecting of Vegas.





Not sure that it's necessarily worth making a 40-mile round-trip detour from the 95 (although the 163 to it was a great road), and it won't win any prizes for "most attractive city" but it was a good night and considerably more enjoyable than Vegas. Unpretentious, entertaining fun. Plus, sixty bucks! And doughnuts!!

I [heart] Palm Springs

Why?

1. Desert modern. THE architectural style of Palm Desert. All 1950s/60s simple lines, elevated roofs, supporting columns with fins, pools, and concrete decor. Of course, concrete boxes do look better against a bright blue sky and hot desert sun than it would in pouring rain (c.f. the 1950s brutal concrete of St Stephen's, Norwich). We didn't get to see as many of the houses as we would have liked, given that they're behind hedges or on private streets -- and we failed to get the right map until late on our only full day there -- but the commercial buildings we saw were wonderful. Even the Shell garage had an interesting roof. Depressingly, the real estate agents had several great -- and affordable, dammit! -- properties for sale, like this one. Want!



2. The aerial tramway. Now, I'm no fan of cable cars -- and indeed spent one memorable trip up a mountain huddled in the bottom of a cable car to the bemusement of the French and Swiss folks with us -- so I was a little surprised to find myself reading out the description of PS's "revolving tramway" to PJ and suggesting that we have a go on it. And while most of the journey was fine, the bit where we went over the support towers was most unpleasant. But, there's something quite impressive about climbing from the desert floor to alpine meadows carpeted with snow in just 10 minutes.





3. Lots of restaurants. Seriously, lots and lots of restaurants. Would it be sushi? South-western? The hamburger joint? Upmarket French cuisine? Etc etc? No, it was fish and chips at the fishmarket -- darn good fish and chips. You can take the boy out of England ...

4. A really wonderful hotel. We're not the most sociable people, but free booze certainly encourages us to talk to others; we are English, after all. The Movie Colony Hotel provided sake martinis and wine at 5.30 in the evening around the fire pit, and as a result, we chatted to lovely people from Orange County, Chicago, Vancouver, British Columbia ... and even acknowledged them at the free breakfast buffet the following morning. The hotel was also beautifully designed and had an excellent, under-utilized jacuzzi. It is very pleasant to sit out in a jacuzzi at 9.30 pm in early January and watch the stars through hot steam. Highly recommended.



5. A walkable downtown and uptown heritage area. LA was impressive, but it was nice to get out of the car and just walk around. You see so much more and it feels so much healthier (highly calorific Jamba Juice consumption notwithstanding).



We are very tempted by the prospect of wintering in Palm Springs from December this year. It will all depend on whether we have a house here and cats.

Can you guess where we are now?

Hint: There's a clue in the picture.

Stella!

This is LA

We left the secondhand smoke of Vegas behind and hit the I-15 to LA. Long straight roads over the mountains, a quick refreshment break at a truck stop outside Victorville, and then I took the wheel of the car to drive the remaining 100 miles to Cheviot Hills. Driving on the freeways around LA is scary. In the UK, it's illegal to "under-take" -- not so in the US. Nope, you can cut across multiple lanes, scream up the inside lane and pull in front without indicating, and you can do this while taking a call on your cell and drinking a coffee. Madness -- or, perhaps, a way of weeding out the weaker/stupider members of society.

However, the hideous journey was worth it. Not only did we stay in a beautiful house with lovely people and one of the best dogs ever, but the weather was gorgeous and we had a fab meal at Providence. No celebrity sightings unfortunately, but a good time nonetheless. I'm beginning to understand why people leave the UK in the winter; sunshine and blue skies in January are very welcome.

Vegas by day

What happens in Vegas ...

Las Vegas. Gambling mecca, environmental nightmare, and home to one of my favorite TV shows. So far, however, we've encountered no dead bodies or arterial spray, just plenty of secondhand smoke. It's not as glitzy as I'd imagined; sure, the Venetian and Caesars Palace (no apostrophe!) are impressive, and the neon is great, but the actual casinos seem rather secondary to the shopping and entertainment options here. Many of them are half-empty, even on a Saturday afternoon, and there's no clink clink clink of coins pouring out -- most now are video slot machines that take credit cards or dollar bills. It's rather sad.

Disappointingly, the TV channels in our hotel room are failing to show "all CSI all the time!" We did come across an intriguingly liberal documentary about mob involvement with Las Vegas (and, by extension, Cuba and the Kennedys), shown most surprisingly on the Tourism channel. However, somebody must have been monitoring the viewership and realized that we were actually watching it, and so swiftly pulled it and replaced it with a tedious rundown of the subpar "entertainment" shows available in the various casinos. Damn!

High point: having lunch at El Sombrero, a Mexican restaurant downtown recommended by Lonely Planet.
Low point: trying to get a non-turkey/chicken/beef sandwich. What's wrong with tuna or cheese?

Start the year as you mean to go on

With the charity cook book's Crunchie bar dessert -- the simplest pudding in the world.* And damn tasty at that.



*If you don't count eating condensed milk from the tin with a spoon.

Bah Humbug

Q: How can you tell if your sat-nav's not up to date?
A: Let it guide you across Sheffield city centre at night as you travel from restaurant-free Doncaster. If it keeps trying to take you down roads reserved for trams, it's time to pay for an upgrade (apparently).

Q: How can you tell if your favorite mixing bowl has a hairline crack across the bottom?
A: Try pickling some red cabbage in it, prior to creating a lovely warm cabbage salad, and watch it leak bright red cabbage-y vinegar all over the worksurface and floor.

Christmas has been SUCH fun!