Got milk?

We have! Two pints of organic semi-skimmed, delivered to our doorstep in lovely glass bottles every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Hurrah -- it feels like a return to the 1950s (except for, y'know, the Internet, gay rights, and needing two incomes to support a two-person/two-cat household)!

Sick kitty

After a month of smooth sailing, we hit our first hiccup with the kittens today. I came downstairs in the afternoon to discover that someone had been sick. It looks as if someone had gobbled down their food too quickly* ... which pointed to our resident greedy-guts, Shinobi. (When we took her to the vet last week, we discovered she weighed almost 20% more than Nin!) Anyhow, she's spent the rest of the afternoon curled up in a corner, on my lap, or on a chair, feeling very sorry for herself. Poor petal.

* Well, she either ate too quickly or has taken our comments about her being a bit porky to heart, and has become bulimic. Eek!

This is not the cake I was hoping for

When you decide to make a chocolate beetroot cake because you have guests coming round, it's always a good idea to check that your frozen, pureed beetroot doesn't contain any spices. If not, you could end up making a chocolate and cumin cake. Like I did. It's not bad -- the texture of the cake is beautifully fluffy and it slices perfectly, but it's got an unusual aftertaste. Again, not unpleasant -- in fact, I could probably claim that it's a Heston Blumenthal recipe, a la snail porridge, and it would win great acclaim. It's just ... different. Must go and try another piece.

Of course it's closed down!

At the weekend, I waxed lyrical about IBM's open day and the fond memories it evoked of my time at Norwich Union's Pinebanks. It's since been drawn to my attention that Pinebanks has now closed. I could rant about the no-doubt inevitable "re-development" of this beautiful piece of land into a dreadful "executive home" housing estate. Or I could damn the Thatcherite legacy of a relentless focus on the bottom line and the "individual" at the expense of the community, but I won't because it just makes me depressed.

"It's beer o' clock!"

The cats discover the hours of fun to be had from an (empty) box of beer. It's almost as much fun as PJ had with it when it was a full box of beer. Kittens, boyfriends: it's good that they're so easily entertained.

This post is not about kittens

Yesterday was "open day" day. First up was a trip out to Upper Norton Farm, just north of the A303, for a Riverford open day. This is where many of the veggies in our veggie box are grown, organically. It's not as pretty as the original Riverford farm down in Devon that we visited last year, but it was still interesting to see where our food comes from. We met our scheme organizers, finally putting a face to the email address; we bought free-range eggs and organic apple and ginger juice; and we snacked on baby cucumbers from the polytunnels. It was all very ... middle class. The place was packed with Guardian-reading, Birkenstock-wearing, baby-buggy-pushing 30-somethings, which points to the inherent limitations of this kind of scheme, admirable though it is. It's preaching to the converted, not to the vast swathes of society who could really benefit from it. Plus, it's dreadful realizing (yet again) just how much of an archetype one really is. Makes you want to take up fox-hunting, just to be contrary.

A field of raw porridge:



However, we pressed on with our middle-class pursuits and gatecrashed an open day at Hursley Park, IBM's R&D lab just outside Winchester. It wasn't wholly intentional gatecrashing; we knew something was going on and swung by on the offchance that it was open to the public. Nobody was stopping people at the gates or taking names, so we parked up, went for a stroll around the gorgeous house, and admired the grounds -- and the thousands of current and former IBMers and their families that were there. There was a minature farm and kite-flying and a fly-past by a Spitfire, which was developed at Hursley Park before IBM took it over. It was a salutory reminder of how good some of these established, gigantic global companies can be in terms of looking after their staff; the sports grounds were beautifully maintained and the clubhouse rather impressive. It rather reminded me of Norwich Union's facilities at Pinebanks and the sporting events and children's Christmas parties that I attended back in the 1970s. Given our individualist, telecommuting, distributed work environment, I felt rather nostalgic for the corporate collectivism that these firms promote(d). Getting a subsidized gym membership just isn't the same as having company-organized interdepartmental netball and football tournaments, is it?

Neither is this

Instead, it's a recipe for the best salad in the world. Seriously. It's the sort of salad where you just want to keep eating it, on its own, forever. It's that good. And it contains fennel. I know, I know. You don't like fennel. You never finished that bottle of ouzo you bought back from Greece. And aniseed is best served in the form of balls or rock, not as a vegetable. But trust me. This is fantastic.

Take 1 head of fennel. Clean it, take off the grody outer leaves, and then slice it as thinly as possible. Use a mandolin. In fact, buy a mandolin just for this salad (I did). Place your fennel shavings into a bowl, slosh on some decent extra virgin olive oil, the juice of half a lemon, and a sprinkling of sea salt (Maldon, for preference). Toss together gently. Then take a block of parmesan and use the mandolin to shave cheesy slivers over the fennel. Grab a fork and start eating. Prepare to repel invaders who also want some.

No pictures. We finished it too quickly.

It's not so much "Stuff on my cats" . . .

. . . as "Cats on my stuff". Particularly books. When I'm trying to read. Bless.

Flowers from the garden

Pretty, aren't they? And so cheap! Gardens are great!

Cats, baking, gardening: All I need is The Archers omnibus and I've got the typical British suburban Sunday afternoon

I'm exhausted. I've spent 2 hours in the garden, chopping away at the brambles that are growing lightning fast, dead-heading geraniums, and cutting back the tree out front that is creating something of a hazard along the road. It's an overcast, sultry day and I'm beginning to ache. I haven't even started mowing the lawn yet -- I'll wait till my bread's finished baking and I've recovered a little. As a special treat, I let the cats into the conservatory for only the second time. They're delighted: New areas to explore, new furniture to destroy, new clothing to play with. They're particularly enamoured of the clothes rack; I hope their obvious pleasure at sitting amongst our damp underwear isn't evidence of some kind of kinky fetish.

Come out, come out, wherever you are!



That's better:



You too, Nin.




Most of the time, however, they sit at the window, watching me slave away. It's rather sweet, really. They're also displaying certain territorial tendencies. When Shin spots a bird out of the window, her tail starts moving and she makes this weird "ack-ack" noise in her throat. While I was in the garden, the blackbird started his warning signal; I looked round, and the rather large neighbourhood cat jumped over the wall into the bottom of our garden. In the conservatory behind me, Nin and Shin came over to the window, staring menacingly at this intruder. Despite the fact that they were no real threat to him, our big-boned buddy decided to push off. I foresee some battles when we let the girls out in a month or so. Till then, they'll just have to focus on hunting down our socks and pants.

Why wasn't I invited?

It's party time at a house across the allotments. They've got a marquee, party lights, and a mobile disco. It's playing all the classics: Macarena, YMCA, and -- best of all -- Yes sir, I can boogie by Baccara. God, I love this song! All together now!

Shinobi's IT help desk

"Yeah, so I've run an error search on your hard disk, and it's full of bad clusters. Yeah, lots of 'em, mainly in photo files. So, I think your hard disk is on its way out. Yeah, you'll need a new one. Hey, no problem. Just doin' my job. Have a nice day."

I can take a hint

I received not one, not two, but THREE books on gardening for my birthday. Personally, I don't think the garden looks that bad, and brambles have their appeal (for some), but I get the message. Loud and clear. So I called a gardener today. And with the 70 quid we won at last night's pub quiz (Go team Norfolk Dumpling!), we'll be able to pay him. Problem solved!

CSI: Otterbourne

First, we found the mutilated limb.



Then came the dismembered torso.



What twisted soul could have committed such a barbaric act? Could it be Kitty No. 1?



or perhaps Kitty No. 2?



They're not saying, and there were no pawprints in the arterial spray. I guess we may never crack this case!

Cats notwithstanding, we get on our bikes

At the weekend, we decided to haul out our bikes (and our Dutch courage) and set off to explore. First up was a new route to Waitrose in Chandler's Ford, one that didn't involve a loooooooong uphill slog on the way back. We still have an uphill slog, but it's considerably shorter and more manageable. The route took us along the back of some very pleasant 70s estates and up into the centre of town, and will probably be good for burning up a few calories before reaching Dave's fish n' chip shop. On Sunday, we cycled into Eastleigh; while we discovered another set of local shops -- including a Co-op that's open till 10! -- we also found that the cycle path into the centre of town fetches up at a railway bridge. In my youth, BR provided gates across railway lines so that you didn't have to hoist your bike up and down steep flights of steps, but presumably that would violate all sorts of health and safety issues today -- and result in lawsuits.* So, up and over the bridge we climbed, cursing as we went, and determined to find an easier route back (which we did, via Leigh Road and Woodside Avenue, if you're interested). It's about a 15-minute ride from the arts centre in Eastleigh back home, more than doable of an evening. Result!

* I'm with Mencken on this one: "By protecting people from the consequences of their own stupidity, we populate the world with fools." But, it didn't get me out of doing bus duty at school when on my PGCE course and I doubt it will get Railtrack to install a convenient gate across the tracks.

We cower in the bedroom

In just a short time, the kittens have firmly established themselves as in full control of the household. We feed them when they demand, clean out their (excellent) litter tray, and have taken to hiding away any and all objects that they might decide to chew -- i.e., all the books. We don't leave our room at night, as it's difficult to get them out of it once they come in, and we are constantly aware that a kitten may decide to land on our heads/legs/back, claws unsheathed, at any moment. They've also discovered a catnip toy -- chaos ensues. However, they are still adorable and the source of constant entertainment. And, they've fully cleaned out the space under the oven by dint of sliding under there on the blue rug. Now, if only I could tie dusters to their paws and get them to polish the parquet, we'd see a real return on our (considerable) investment.

Lean, mean, purring machines

If you don't like cats, look away now. And probably for the next few months (or possibly years). Our kitties are home! We picked them up today from the shelter, and after complaining vociferously in the car on the way back, they appear to have settled in. The first two hours were spent tearing round the house, delving into the dustiest corners and finding the highest surfaces to jump off. Then came a blissful hour of them both dozing and purring noisily on my lap. And now? Running around the house again. So, please say hello to:

Ninja (small, dark, will run around quietly [ish] and jump out when you least expect it):



and Shinobi (another name for Japanese warriors, plus Shin and Nin have a pleasing ring to them):



It's going to be all kitties all the time round here!

In which we experience an action-packed 26 hours

Starting yesterday lunchtime, when we went out for a 4 km run -- reasonably impressive, given that neither of us are natural runners, PJ's carrying several injuries, and the last kilometer is uphill. Flushed (quite literally, in my case) with this success, we worked for the rest of the afternoon, then loaded up the car with all the remaining cardboard boxes and rubble in the garage and headed to the Eastleigh dump. We then moseyed through Eastleigh, under the M3, to the gigantic Asda in Chandler's Ford. This was ... impressive. Two floors, cheap food, a well-stocked Polish food section, presumably for all the local tradespeople, and we were the thinnest people in there. Thus heartened, we stopped off for fish n' chips on the way home, and proceeded to slump into a carb-driven coma, watching a couple of Liverpool-related episodes of Rock Family Trees.

At crack of noon today, we set off again. This time, our destination was St Francis Animal Welfare Centre in Fair Oak to see if they had any kittens. We were in luck! Two sisters, who have been reserved for us! We just need to have a home check and buy vast quantities of stuff for them to eat from, sleep in, and poo next to (if Plato and Aristotle -- our former cats -- were anything to go by). Next, on to Up & Running in Chandler's Ford to get some new running shoes, in a sad attempt to convince ourselves that our inability to run fast or far is the result of bad footwear, rather than ineptitude. The shop was fantastic; no Adidas or Nikes in sight, and experienced runners who checked our feet, recorded our gait on a video and played it back, and then prescribed shoes to correct my weak left ankle (for me, obviously; PJ doesn't need to correct that problem, although he has plenty of his own). Finally, we headed down to The Old Forge for a light lunch and a lazy perusal of The Guardian. Back home, PJ swore mightily at the video game console, while I sat in the back garden, finishing off The Guardian and watching the birds. I am clearly morally superior.

Anyway, now it's time for Dr Who. Pip pip!

O I do like to be beside the seaside!

Glorious sunshine yesterday so we headed down to Portsmouth -- a 30-minute drive away and new to both of us. It's a mixed city, to say the least. There's a huge new outlet shopping mall near the harbour -- fine if you're happy to still spend 45 quid on a Paul Smith t-shirt followed by lunch at Nando's, slightly overwhelming if you're not. We did find Aspex, a rather sweet little art gallery with cafe and shop near the waterfront. We then headed over to Old Portsmouth -- the cathedral, a few naval fortifications -- and the real highlight of the day, Southsea. Southsea is the alternative, scruffy, student heart of the city. Albert Road is the main drag, with all manner of vintage shops, ethnic food stores, and fun bars and restaurants. It's a bit like Stoke Newington, only with fewer police helicopters and only a third of the price when it comes to housing (and shopping). We're pottered along, bought lots of spices that I can't get in Sainsbury's, had a good meal in Cape Verde, and then headed home. Fresh air, the sea, good food. We shall definitely go back.

This is what I'm talking about

Of course, he's not the only insect in the garden. Check out this David Lynchian beastie, which I came across when mowing the lawn on Friday evening. Scary.

Slugs. Why did it have to be slugs?

In order to gain gardening tips and maybe some advice on what to do about the hordes of savage slugs and snails (and probably puppy dog tails) that are currently ravaging my radishes, we watched River Cottage Spring -- Hugh Fearnly Posh-Bloke's guide to smallholding and vegetable gardening. Apparently, the best way of growing your own veggies is to give up your job in London, develop a thriving career as a food writer, and employ a farm manager and plenty of staff to do the actual farming. Not desperately helpful, it must be said.

Waitrose's Cooked Sausage and Wholegrain Mustard crisps

These little beauties are currently on a 2-for-2-quid offer and are vegetarian. Perfect! All that meaty flavour with none of the, y'know, dead pigginess. Only problem was that buying them nearly bought the Waitrose payment system to its knees. The first cashier failed to swipe both packs through the machine, but I didn't notice that -- I only noticed that the discount hadn't rung up when I checked the receipt before leaving the store. So we went to complain, and then realized that I actually owed them money -- honesty isn't always the best policy. At this point, we needed the senior cashier to refund the money for the one pack of crisps, swipe the two packs through, and let me pay the difference between the one pack and the two pounds (61 pence, in case you're interested). This was apparently too much for both senior cashier and the machine to cope with. She refunded us money for BOTH packs and gave me 78 pence change. By now, I was determined to pay the right amount of money, rather than doing what any SANE person would have done -- which is pocket the money and walk away. So, after some wrangling, another, more senior cashier came over, fiddled about with keys, the machine, etc, and we finally settled up.

I don't think PJ is going to let me point out mistakes like this in the future. It's too ... time-consuming.

Summer 2007 redux

It's a hard life being a farmer. Why are there slugs on my herbs? When will it rain? Will it stop raining? Will the nonstop rain wash away my seedlings? Will the birds eat my seedlings? How do I know when my seedlings are actual radishes? These are questions that the instructions on the packet just don't answer.

It's also a hard life being a stone mason. PJ finally removed the last pieces of plasterboard in the conservatory, so we've spent several days chipping off the big blobs of plaster that had been holding it on. I now have lots of tiny cuts across my knuckles, chiseling not being part of my vast and varied skill set. Luckily, we discovered that the plasterboard wasn't key to the structural integrity of the conservatory, and it still appears to be standing. And leaking. We had various panes of glass replaced today and much of the moss and dirt cleared, and it turned out that the plant life that had accumulated on the roof had been keeping quite a bit of water out. However, the nice men said they'll come back tomorrow (if it's dry) and seal everything up. Given the weather forecast for the next week, I'm not hopeful.

Sport -- the great uniter

As the pictures from Hull showed, sport brings people together. It unites a long-suffering city and brings joy to faithful followers and casual observers alike.

It can also divide a household.

Next season, Norwich City and Doncaster Rovers will be in the same league. Dumpling Mansions is now a two-Championship-team household. Expect things to get a bit tense around here come August.

All the little birds go cheep cheep cheep

My biggest concern on buying our new home -- other than the imminent collapse of the global economy that it signalled -- was road noise. Specifically, noise from the M3, which is less than a mile away. And on wet days and when the wind is coming from the south-west, you can hear it. However, it is largely a distant drone, drowned out by the sounds of suburbia: lawn mowers mowing, dogs barking, children swearing creatively as they walk to school. Most of all, it is drowned out by the noise of the birds -- hundreds of birds. They hang about in the allotments behind, eating the new plants and the bits of old carpet that provides weed cover. There are blackbirds, thrushes, chaffinches, blue tits, fat pigeons, and huge crows. The crows particularly delight in landing on the dormer roof of our bedroom and then stomping up and down it. The dawn chorus and the related stomping start up at (approximately) 4.45 a.m. -- and delightful though it is, I wish they'd just leave it until 7.45 instead. Noisy little blighters.

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.